Page 6 of Painted Scars
I think I’m pregnant.
My basement just flooded.
Those women are obsessed. They’ve got a Discord server dedicated to him like he’s their god. Frames tracking his tattoo placements. Theories on his scars. One girl did a full astrological breakdown of his posts to track his lunar pattern. These women can dismantle a cartel and all its agents with their research and slow-motion replays of his shadows and reflections. I contemplate hiring these sleuths for our mission.
I’m pretty sure if they ever discover who hereallyis, they’ll still risk it. Some just want to fuck him, others fix him. And the pearl clutchers pray for him to repent his sins.
As for the third reason, Grayson assures me that he monitors every frame, strips metadata, and reroutes IP addresses to prevent the Romans from triangulating our movement and locations. And if he fails, I’ve promised to delete Katar.
“My system flagged this comment.” Grayson magnifies it in a screengrab.
“Come and tie me up and let me ride that knife.” Katar reads the actual comment as he stirs sugar into Grayson’s coffee mug with his weapon. “My kind of poetry.”
Knives are dangerous and shouldn’t be used recklessly, especially with a psychopath with bondage fantasies.
Grayson’s system flags Roman code in everyday content—slang, emojis, animals, and places. This one is decoded asdanger, hiccup, beach.Gibberish unless you know their system.
I massage my temple. “If I see something like that again, I’m putting a bullet in the router.”
Katar’s smirk is all chaos and no sanity as he delivers the coffee. “I want to meet this Bad Little Smut $lut. She sounds like she can handle riding this devil.” His chest flexes under his shirt, pulling taut over his nipple rings.
“You won’t be so eager when you see who it is,” Grayson mutters, clicking forward, bringing up a new video of someone’s loungeroom.
“My dick’s game.” Classic Katar.
The camera pans a row of bookshelves lined with crude cock stickers, plush dicks, penis mugs, and enough X-rated merch to get banned in seven countries.
“For the love of God,” I mutter, shielding my eyes. “Warn us next time!”
“Don’t act like you haven’t seen a dick before,” Katar says with perverted amusement.
Working patrol, I’ve seen things that would make Satan flinch. But this? This is deranged.
“You’re assigned this one,” I tell Katar, waving at the screen. “Since you love cock so much.”
These BookTok Girlies are wild. Obsessed with morally bankrupt men they think they can tame. I need a Tylenol. Or a firewall. Both.
“There’s more.” Grayson’s mouth flattens.
More? Dear God, save me.
“You know this woman.” Grayson lets the rest of the video play.
Blonde hair with a riot of colors—purple, blue, orange, green, and pink streaks. Magnetic curves impossible to look away from. Hazel eyes that catch me off guard, highlighted with glitter eyeshadow and winged eyeliner. Did Elle Woods give birth to confetti?
I continue my appraisal. A luscious mouth made for sin—full, wicked, and wearing a smile that says she knows what she’s doing. Alive and full of color in a world of shadows. Every inch calculated to stand out, and I don’t trust someone who can’t blend in.
So why can’t I stop staring?
Katar waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Want me to get her number, or you a cold shower?”
Grayson grins and rubs his jaw. “He’s doing that micro-frowning thing. Does he need an ambulance?”
“I’m assessing a potential threat,” I say through gritted teeth.
Katar dips his knife into his coffee and licks the end. “A threat to your self-control.”
“He’s exhibiting classic lust denial.” Grayson delivers his line dry like his code.
