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Chance relieves Bobby, taking over his post once we’re back at the penthouse.
He seems nice enough, for a Sinner. He’s definitely got a hard-on for Link, and he spends most of the ride back to the Paradise Suites marveling over how much a beatdown he gave the “wallet” back at the club. Having arrived right as Link did, Chance had a front-row seat to watching as Link’s critical eyes roved over the entire club upon his entrance.
He saw me first, then the man who was yanking on my arm. It happened just as fast as I thought it did, with Link storming across the dance floor, pulling us apart so that he could beat the ever-loving hell out of the man for daring to touch his wife.
But that’s the problem, I discover. Until Link referred to me as his wife in front of Chance, he had no idea that the boss was married. He’s not the first one, either. The men he sends to watch over me when he can’t be in the penthouse… they all know, but it seems like my wonderful husband has decided to keep our wedding a secret from the rest of the Sinners Syndicate.
That doesn’t make any sense to me. The whole point of me agreeing to marry him in exchange for his protection was because he needed a wife because his men expected him to have one.
But how does that work if none of them know we’re married?
I don’t want to think about it. Every time I do, I can’t stop flashing back to the moment he snatched that man, and I saw murder written on his face. I honestly believe that, if I wasn’t watching him beat that guy, he would’ve killed him. Everything happened in a flash, but I swear I remember him sparing me one look toward the end before he tossed the guy aside.
He was checking for my reaction, seeing how his wife liked seeing the Devil hard at work.
Ididn’t,and after the way he reacted when he saw that my wedding ring was missing, it’s a good thing that he stayed behind in the club while sending me back home.
I don’t expect Link to come back anytime soon. He was furious, I was in shock, and he probably has some more “business” to take care of. Me? I feel the need to hop in the shower to wash off the blood that spattered on me, and the memory of that creep’s hand on my skin.
About an hour later, after I’m showered, dressed, and sitting in the living room, watching television while Chance hovers in the hallway, watching over me while I pretend he isn’t, the doors open.
My head turns at the familiarwhoosh, and I’m just in time to see Link walking into the room.
He’s changed, too. Earlier, he was in wearing one of the suits he pulls on when he has a “business meeting” to attend. Now? He’s traded it for a short-sleeved black top that stretches across his sculpted chest, black jeans, and boots. The blood is washed from his skin, and there’s something shiny smeared on his knuckles.
Neosporin, maybe? Someone cleaned him up, and it wasn’t me.
He’s not alone, either, which is another reason that stay quiet as he moves to stand in front of the couch. It’s not just that I feel a pang at knowing that, despite being moved into his house, I’m still nothing more than a fixture kept apart from his real life… only, yes, it is, and I look away from my fiercely beautiful husband, focusing on his companion, instead.
He’s pretty. At least a decade younger than me and Link, he has shoulder-length black hair, delicate features, and light brown skin. His eyes are warm, his smile friendly, and apart from his face, every inch of skin I see on him is covered in tattoos in shades of black and grey.
He’s carrying a large black case in one hand. With the other, he waves at me.
Link makes a rumbling noise in the back of his throat.
His friend drops his hand.
Okay, then.
Link points at the glass table next to the couch I’m lounging on. “You can set up there,” he says, and the younger man nods.
Grabbing the table, he lifts it easily, shifting it so that’s in front of me. Once he has, he pops open his case on one side of the rectangular table and starts unloading supplies.
Gloves, paper towels, a sealed needle, tiny plastic vials, ink—
“Cross does the inking for the syndicate,” Link announces, just as the man—Cross—pulls on a pair of gloves and starts to assemble his tattooing machine. “I brought him here to give you a tat.”
“What? Me?”
He nods. “I won’t risk you losing another wedding band or taking it off when it suits you. My way, you have it permanently inked into your skin, and everyone will know that you’re mine.”
I blink. “Are you telling me that you’re tattooing aringon my finger?”
“Something like that.” He nods at the side of the table in front of me where Cross isn’t setting his supplies out. “Lay your hand on the table, pet.”
Not willing to risk his temper again, I do what he says, and Link crouches down so that he’s at my side. He runs his fingertip up and down the length of my ring finger, riding the knuckles before he taps the one closest to the hand, then stands up again.
“Here,” he tells Cross. “I want it right here.”
