Page 79 of There Are No Saints

What the fuck does that mean?

“I own you now, Mara. You belong to me, whether you like it or not.”

He trails his fingers lightly down the side of my chest, along the curve where the breast meets the ribs. My nipples are harder than diamonds. They could cut his face if he leaned too close.

He traces the serpent’s body with his fingertips.

“I can’t have another man’s mark on you.”

“Idesigned that tattoo,” I hiss.

“I designed a better one.”

He reaches inside the doctor’s bag. Pulling out a tattoo gun.

“Are you insane?” I shriek.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve been practicing the last few hours.”

“On who?!”

He just smiles.

“Steady now. I’m still perfecting my technique.”

Cole cleans my skin with green soap, also taken from the bag. He really has everything he needs in there.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE—”

He fires up the gun with that high buzzing sound that’s all too familiar to me.

I shriek, trying to twist away from him.

“If you don’t hold still, you won’t like the result,” he says.

He presses the tip of the gun against my ribs, turning my shriek into a piercing scream.

I feel the prick of the needle as it pierces my skin, depositing the ink deep down where it can never be removed.

Instinctively, I freeze.

I can’t stop Cole. And I really don’t want a fucking mess all over my ribs.

The gun moves slowly, surely. Though I know a tattoo gun operates much like a sewing machine, plunging the needle down under the skin at regular intervals, what it actually feels like is someone drawing on you with a sharp pen.

I look down, trying to figure out what he’s drawing.

It’s impossible to tell from this angle, upside down.

Cole’s hands move over me, strong and capable. Warmer than I would have guessed. In fact, his bare hands on my flesh feel surprisingly pleasurable, in contrast to the bite of the needle.

Every time he exhales, his breath slides across my waist. It runs along the line where my denim overalls meet my bare skin.

Cole is left-handed. I never noticed that before.

His left hand operates the gun with smooth, sure motion, while his right rests against my hip. Gripping me tight. Holding me in place.

I’ve never had the chance to look at him so close.

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