Page 43 of Beautifully Deranged

I force my face into a cold mask. “It won’t make me forgive you.”

He lifts a brow. “No?”

“No.”

“I won’t stop, sweetheart.”

“Stop what?”

“Loving you.”

Hearing him say he loves me stirs a spark in me. But there’s a barrier between us, something holding me back from fully trusting his words. Does he really mean it? I’m not sure I believe him yet.

I hold on to my harshness. “You really think you can buy my forgiveness?”

“No,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I will earn it.”

I let him lead me because, well… what the fuck else am I supposed to do? The moment we step inside the building, heads turn.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Boss.”

“Mr. Volkov.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge them, just keeps walking. Shoulders squared, grip steady on me like I’ll bolt if he lets go. He’s not wrong.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Your company?”

“Smart, isn’t it?”

“Oh, brilliant.” I roll my eyes. “How utterly fucking convenient that my studio is in your construction empire.”

He hums, dragging me past another set of glass doors. “You sound ungrateful.”

“Oh, not at all.” I gesture vaguely. “I love the idea of you lurking around while I work. Watching and meddling.”

It doesn’t matter that I did it first. He doesn’t get to do it now, not after what he said.

“I do enjoy watching you.”

I wrench my wrist free. The studio is huge, with high ceilings and natural light. Every artist’s wet dream. And yet, the only thing I can focus on is him. He’s setting something up in the corner. I stalk closer, peering over his shoulder. Cotton pads. Alcohol. Two stools. My brows furrow. “What are you—”

He turns, something small and mechanical in his hand. A tattoo gun. “I owe you an apology for calling your work average.”

That fucking night. Those words. That sting I try so hard to pretend doesn’t cut me open. “You should be apologizing for a lot more than that.”

“I know.”

I frown at the tattoo gun. “And what—this is your grand apology?”

“No.” He holds it up. “This is how I prove it. You think I don’t see it? What you do? What you create?” His fingers brushthe inside of my wrist, his touch searing. “It’s exceptional. So put it on me.”

“Huh?”

“Your talent. On my skin. Carve it into me so I never forget how fucking wrong I am.”

My lips part, but no words come out.

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