Page 7 of Pregnant Prisoner By the Bratva
He blinked, as if anchoring himself back to the present. Then, he nodded.
“Okay, good.” I cleared my throat, gesturing toward the chair. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
He moved with quiet command, shedding his trench coat and draping it over a hook on the wall.
“So, what do you want inked?” I asked, my voice firm and audacious.
Quietly, he peeled off his jacket, his movement slow and deliberate. Then, with his fingers, he untucked his white undershirt, a glimpse of his chiseled abs catching my eye. Next, he loosened his flashy red tie, and while undoing the buttons of his shirt, I looked away, scratching the back of my head.
What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t a damn strip club.
“This,” he said, his deep husky voice drawing my attention back to him.
By now, the top five buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing his broad chest and ridiculously attractive torso. I swallowed, blinking a few times to stay in control.
I traced his finger to the jagged scar that cut across his ribs—a pale, nasty old wound.
“I want you to ink this,” he said, tapping on the scar, his gaze fixed on me.
My eyes roamed his body for a moment, drinking in his muscular frame, marked with more old scars. The man clearly had his fair share of violence. Like I said, dangerous.
“Can you put something over it, make it look like it wasn’t for nothing?” he added, his gaze unwavering.
I hesitated for a while before answering, “Yeah. Sure.”
“Good.” He took the shirt off completely, exposing his great body.
My eyes didn’t miss a thing.
The man was built like a weapon. Not the gym-rat kind of strong, but rather something leaner—more dangerous—like a man who fought to survive, not impress. There was nothing soft in him. Not a single thing.
His broad shoulders led down to a perfectly sculpted chest, marred with old scars—knife wounds, and probably even bullet wounds. His nipples were hard, his abs chiseled, and his torso narrowed to a flat abdomen.
I’d seen all kinds of body builds in men on the job, but this…this one was different. Different in a way that I couldn’t explain, a way that made my heart skip and my breath hitch.
I masked my fascination with motion, reaching for my gloves. I tightened my jaw, praying he wouldn’t see how much effect his body had on me. My expression was still flat, containing the butterflies fluttering in my belly, even though my pulse had other ideas.
He sat on the chair like he owned the place, relaxed, legs slightly apart, with an arm slung over the back. From his posture, it was clear that he was used to being in control. He remained perfectly still, like a predator ready to strike, with those cold blue eyes fixed on me.
I pulled on my gloves with asnap, my gaze shifting from his scar to his face. “Got a design in mind? Or should I freestyle something over it?”
His lips twisted into a small grin. “Surprise me.”
Most people who walked in here usually knew exactly what they wanted drawn on their skins. Others would choose from our catalog if they had nothing in mind. But not this man, obviously. He was the first client ever to ask me to freestyle anything of my choice on their skin.
The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine—low, steady, edged in challenge.
I raised my brows. “You sure about that?”
His silence was cute.
“Alright.”
I pulled out my sketchbook and began a rough outline—sharp, fluid lines that came to me faster than usual. He was a Mafia boss; whatever I’d design on his skin should at least reflect his lifestyle—dangerous, violent, chaotic.
It had to be something bold, elegant but brutal, something that would impress him. My hands moved with expert precision as I drew a double-headed eagle with wings stretching out and demonic claws wrapped around a crown of thorns.
I jerked my head, showing him my sketch, a part of me hoping he appreciated the concept.
