There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(47)

He’s jealous. He’s admitting that he’s jealous.

Cole runs his thumb across my lower lip. My sweat is gasoline. Every place he touches ignites on fire.

I hear a sharp click and the cold clasp of a manacle closing around my wrist.

Before I can move, before I can even glance down at my own wrist, Cole takes three swift steps, dragging me toward the wall. He yanks my arms over my head and handcuffs me in place, the chain wrapped around an exposed pipe.

“What the fuck!?” I shriek.

I yank on the cuffs, the metal biting into my wrists.

“This will go a lot smoother if you hold still,” Cole says.

He plucks the paintbrush out of my hand, setting it aside.

“What will go smoother? What the fuck are you doing?” I cry.

I’m starting to hyperventilate. The wrist ties are bringing back horrible memories, all in a rush.

Cole doesn’t answer me.

Instead, he pulls over a stool and sets down the bag he was carrying—a black leather bag that opens at the top like an old-fashioned doctor’s satchel.

He unclips the straps of my overalls, letting the bib fall down to my waist. Then he grabs the front of my tank top with both hands, ripping it apart. My breasts fall free, nipples rock hard, chest bared to his view.

We both look down, staring at my tits. At the silver rings with a single bead in the center, glinting like the rain in Cole’s hair.

His gaze crawls down my body. To the tattoo on my ribs.

“Logan did that to you,” Cole says softly.

It’s not a question.

“How do you know that?” I demand.

Cole rests his hand against the wall, leaning close, his lips almost touching the rim of my ear. Almost, but not quite.

“I know everything about you, Mara. Everything,” he murmurs. “I know you fucked him to defy me. To show me that I can’t control you. And maybe I can’t control you—not all the time. But you were given to me.”

I was given to him?

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.”

“I designed 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.

His hair is incredibly thick, like animal fur. As he tilts his head, it brushes against my skin, soft and slightly damp.

Though I know he’s older than me, his skin is remarkably smooth. Maybe because he only forms expressions when someone is watching.

Almost all the animation in his face comes from those straight, dark brows. They remind me of shodo on pale white paper. In Japanese calligraphy, no two brush strokes are ever the same. So it is on Cole’s face—those brows are the ink strokes that give meaning to his bottomless black eyes.

He’s utterly focused on me, gaze lasered in, jaw tight. My breathing slows, matching pace with his. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

His beauty is mesmerizing. I’m watching him, not the tattoo gun. Feeling his touch, not the touch of steel.

He can feel me relax. He looks up into my face.

“I don’t know why you always want to fight me,” he says. “It’s so much more pleasurable to give me what I want . . .”