The Tattoo Artist (La Petite Mort #1)

1. Chapter 1

one

Quinn

P resent Day

Big Ben chimed, signaling to London that it was officially midnight. I wished myself a happy birthday before finally getting frustrated with myself. I couldn't sleep. I dragged myself out of bed. A few minutes later, I was all set up with my canvas. I walked a few steps to where my A-stand stood.

Deimos was on my mind. I had an urge to draw him today of all days.

DEIMOS

I should be scared of him.

Frightened for my life.

I witnessed him stab a man two years ago, and yet it didn't affect me like it would have any normal, sane person.

Maybe I wasn't normal?

Maybe I wasn't sane?

Deimos intrigued me, and as I grew older, I felt a connection with him despite the stories my mother had told me. Stories of how Deimos had preyed on innocent girls like myself. How he had corrupted them and defiled them. All of which were rubbish tales told to scare me into staying home. I wasn't stupid. I knew my mother and the town's people said all those horrible things to ensure their kids behaved. But now, at eighteen, I was more than determined to find Deimos.

As I sat on my stool with a blank canvas by the window and my paint brushes ready, I prepared myself to paint my obsession. I stared out my window, looking at the darkness before me with only the stars from the sky and the lamppost across the street giving me the perfect amount of light. I made sure my parents were asleep and locked my bedroom door. I slowly started to unbutton my shirt, revealing my perky breasts. I removed my bra and exposed my pink nipples, which had now grown hard, as I felt a cold breeze brush against them. I always paint half-naked, with only wearing my favorite panties.

Was it strange?

Maybe to some, but to me, it was liberating. Painting naked had its benefits, and the focus I gained from this method enhanced my technique. Plus, I enjoyed it.

It made me feel sexy.

Powerful .

I drew the street in front of my window and Deimos. I drew him as I remembered him two years ago: a shadow in the night sky with a bloody knife and his beautiful tattoo. I tried searching images for that exact symbol and what it could possibly mean, but I couldn't find anything helpful. I continued painting as I painted the lamppost and all the darkness I saw that night. The only light color I used besides white was for his eyes.

Those beautiful emerald green eyes.

A green you thought you would never see. His eyes were mysterious and haunting. They pulled you in almost instantly. I tucked the paintbrush in between my lips so that I could open a new tube of paint. As I struggled to open the tube, I got some splatters across my chest, which was no big deal. As I said, painting naked had its benefits—an easy cleanup.

I sighed softly.

A familiar gaze caught me as I turned toward the window with the tube and paintbrush in hand. Looking directly into Deimos's eyes, I could feel my heart skip a beat, and my skin crawl with goosebumps.

He was here!

His green eyes locked with mine, and the intensity held me prisoner for a few seconds.

He was back .

I never thought I would see the day that Deimos returned. He watched me, and I could feel his intense stare make its way to my naked chest. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his trousers. His face was covered, but I recognized those eyes anywhere. I quickly brought my hands to cover my chest as I made quick work of pulling my shirt off the bed.

He watched me. I felt more exposed now than I did two years ago. I had been waiting for him to return for two long years, and he appeared tonight—on my birthday. I grabbed my sketchbook and a pencil and began sketching him, paying close attention to every detail.

Deimos surprisingly stayed still. Almost as if he were posing for me. Did he enjoy this? Did he want me to sketch him?

My hands and eyes worked quickly to capture this moment. I looked down at the sketch and back at him. Deimos took one of his hands out of his pocket, and I leaned closer to the window to get a better view when I saw it.

The tattoo.

The necklace around his neck.

Confusion laced my face as I tried to figure out what that tattoo and necklace could possibly mean—a skull with horns and a sword through the top of the skull's head.

What did it mean?

I wanted to know.

I needed to know.

I reached for a new canvas and started to paint his sign of death, taking my time with the smallest details. As my head went up, I saw he was no longer there. I stood up and opened my window, looking down at the road. My head looked left and right, with no sign of him. There was no trace of Deimos ever being there in the first place, not even a footprint.

Not a single one.

All I could see was the snow-covered road.

"I will find you," I vowed.

An ache settled in my heart just thinking about when I would see him again. Two years again? Four? Ten? I shook the thoughts away, not wanting to know the answer to those questions. I exited the en-suite and got ready for bed.

The last thought on my mind before getting pulled into a deep sleep was Deimos.

Creaking footsteps woke me up. I turned around, and there he stood—a tall figure towering over me. His face was completely hidden under a mask, and his body was encased in black clothing. The mask was all black except for the bottom half, which was a skull—part of a skull.

Fear crept up my skin momentarily before I stared into those beautiful green eyes.

Deimos.

He was in my room.

Instantly, all fear vanished from my body, and my heartbeat quickened as I slowly met his gaze again. His fingers skimmed my jaw. My breathing hardened as his fingertips ran down to my stomach.

He slowly lifted my shirt, taking it off me, and I realized that I was entirely bare for him. His hand reached for one of my brushes, dipping the tip into black paint. He began to paint in a specific location—between my breasts. I was too in shock to even move a muscle. I wanted him to return, but being here and getting so close to me wasn't what I expected.

Was this real?

Was I dreaming?

The brush made its way down the space between my breasts. "Deimos," I whispered softly within the confines of my bedroom. He slid the paintbrush from my breasts down to my navel. I took this opportunity to observe the man in front of me closer. He was tall and definitely not lanky. There were muscles beneath the tight sweatshirt. The outline of his biceps was revealed with each stroke he made with the brush. I felt the brush glide up my stomach, but my gaze remained fixed on him.

He utilized me as his personal canvas. He moved the brush up my lips, tracing them, and before I could process his next move, he pulled out a knife and stabbed the canvas near me. He was ripping it in half without even stopping his other hand from continuously tracing my skin.

I flinched, but only briefly because his gaze never wavered, and something in those emerald green eyes told me he would never hurt me. A few seconds later, he stood, dropped the paintbrush, and slid out my window. I did not dare move from my bed and check to see which way he was going.

My gaze was solely focused on my ripped canvas.

He ripped my canvas .

My head felt heavy from what just happened. How the hell did he get into my room? I looked up and saw my bedroom door open. I rushed towards it and locked it closed. I sighed, releasing the breath I had been holding. I turned my head slightly left and caught my reflection in the mirror across my bedroom door. Moving closer, my fingers traced the butterfly and the sword he drew between my breasts down to my stomach.

I was in awe.

"Quinn! Breakfast is ready," my mother yelled from downstairs, bringing me back to reality. My eyes landed on the ripped canvas, torn in half. I quickly cleaned up the mess, grabbed a sweatshirt and joggers, and slipped them on before going downstairs.

I helped my mother set the table for my father. Growing up in a strict Catholic household, I had specific rules I needed to respect and follow. I never had the opportunity to try new things like the other girls in school. I was forced to study. I had to wear the longest skirts possible to humankind while the other girls wore short skirts that practically showed off their asses. My skirts reached my ankles. I hated them.

My parents wanted the perfect daughter, and that's what I was.

I didn't party.

I didn't drink.

I didn't smoke.

And I wasn't allowed to get any piercings besides the two I already had— one on each of my ears. My parents detested sinful people, but most of all, they hated tattoos.

They hate those who have marked their skin with ink. Not only did they hate the fact that tattoos mark your skin permanently, but the reputation among those who got images that are immoral, satanic, or sexually explicit would go straight to hell.

And because of this, I had no life. I had no real-life experiences. I had no experience with boys. I lived life through romance books. I also lived through my best friend. She was a badass from head to toe. I counted the minutes for her to come and tell me stories about her experiences, especially when it came to sex and men. Sophie left no detail out, and my imagination ran wild. Sophie explained the term 'eating out,' and when she first told me it was when a man licks and sucks you down there, I was in shock, but another part of me had the desire to find out what it would feel like to have a man's tongue on you—to feel him lick you.

The irony was genuinely something to laugh about. I mean, parents told their children not to lick when, in reality, adults enjoyed licking each other. No matter how much I might have carved that thought, my parents would kill me if they found out I had such immoral thoughts running through my head. I'd been tempted to look it up and see for myself, but my parents had blocked out sites that wouldn't be considered child-friendly. So, I gave up since they monitored everything that went on inside this house.

Sophie was my best friend and my next-door neighbor, and we've been close since our first encounter in seventh grade. I laughed internally, remembering that my parents couldn't stand Sophie. They disliked her because she, unlike me, was a free spirit. My parents didn't like how she behaved because they believed Sophie would corrupt me. Sophie wasn't a bad person; I think that sometimes she was misunderstood.

But considering all of this, my parents had allowed her to enter our home and remain my friend because her father was the priest for our church. I know what you might be thinking. A priest with a child, wasn't that against the church rules? The short answer was yes, but that was a story for another day.

I served myself last, taking my seat across from my mother. "Quinn! What did I tell you about ensuring you come presentable and clean to the table? You have paint all over your face," my mother scolded me. My father pointed out the obvious and grabbed my cheeks, trying to wipe it off. Oh, how I wanted to yell the truth. I wanted to tell her Deimos had painted my face, but she would look at me all crazy.

"I know. I'm sorry," I apologized as I rubbed the sleeve of the sweatshirt onto my nose, cheek, and lips, wiping the paint off. I dove into my food moments later, but my mother looked at me, giving me a death glare.

"Quinn!" My mother reprimanded me once again.

"What is wrong with you? We have not said grace. You know better, young lady." I dropped my fork and closed my eyes as we held hands.

I sighed. Deimos had my brain all fuzzy.

"Dear Lord, thank you for this food we are about to eat. We are grateful for your provision. We ask that you bless this food and continue guiding our family along your path. In the name of your son Jesus, amen." My father said as we let go of our hands and did the sign of the cross.

I dove back in, eating my biscuit with gravy and a sausage patty. As I finished taking a sip of my orange juice, I cleared my throat, getting my parents' attention. "Father, I was wondering if it would be okay for me to attend the art museum expo?" I asked, hoping to God that my father would allow me to go.

"No," my father responded without a thought.

My shoulders sagged. "But father ple–" he interrupted me before I could finish my sentence.

"I said, NO, Quinn!" He slammed his palms down against the table. I looked down, staring at the food on my plate, wishing for once that my life was different.

"Yes, father. I understand," I acknowledged softly. My mother then decided to change the subject.

"Quinn, your grandma isn't doing very well, so your father and I will be visiting her a lot more," my mother explained, causing me to glance up. "This will be a perfect opportunity to show us you are ready for the next chapter in your life."

Next chapter?

"You will stay home and look after the house. My dear Quinn, this will be perfect practice for when you get married," my father added. I chuckled internally. I knew where this was going. My parents had insisted on and dropped hints about me marrying Owen Walsh since I was sixteen. My mom and dad lived in the 1800s. I may not be a badass like Sophie, but I wouldn't marry Owen Walsh.

"You remember Owen Walsh from Church? You were both in the same first communion and confirmation class." My mother pointed at me with her fork.

"Yes, I do," I answered as I nodded. I didn't remember him from when we were kids, but the picture my parents showed me had some similarities to how he looked now.

"Sweetheart, his family will be coming next Friday. I expect you to be on your best behavior."

Owen Walsh was the boy my mother and father had wanted me to marry for years. I would bet my life that they had planned this since we first met Owen and his family. From what I could remember, Owen was always a sweet person and a very nice friend, but that was all he was and would ever be. He was never really interested in me in that way. He never had an interest in art, at least not back then. Owen wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man, but he wasn't the man I wanted.

He wasn't my obsession .

He was a friend. My parents would never understand that I didn't want him!

I wanted Deimos.

But my parents insisted on this silly idea, and because of that, I was to be kept pure and innocent for him or any man that would be my husband. I scoffed because if my future husband expected me to be pure and innocent while he went out and had sex with the whole city, he had another thing coming. And I knew Owen's reputation with the ladies precedes him. He's had his fair share of women, which I could understand since he has the boy-next-door vibe.

But Owen couldn't compare to Deimos. While Owen was only five feet ten inches tall and had brown hair and dark brown eyes, Owen was also lean. Deimos, however, stood at six feet four inches. Deimos had broad shoulders and biceps that bulge—my greatest weakness is those damn biceps.

Owen Walsh was too nice for my liking. He was a gentleman who knew what to say to get women into his bed, but he also loved men just as he loved women. He was too scared to come out, and I didn't blame him with the father he had. That was one thing we had in common. Like mine, his parents were very religious and strict. His dad would kill him if he found out that Owen was bisexual.

After breakfast, I washed the dishes and cleaned the table. I walked upstairs and closed my bedroom door, locking it. Getting on all fours, I reached under my bed to retrieve the slashed canvas I had hidden. I focused on the slashed canvas, my mind returning to what happened earlier. My phone pinged with a notification, and I looked down to see that Sophie texted. I opened the message and read it.

Sophie:Come outside your balcony.

I locked my phone and walked to the balcony, pushing the doors open. The balcony was next to Sophie's balcony, where she stood by the railing. I leaned against the railing with my phone held tightly. She smiled and offered me a cigarette. I declined, as I always did.

Sophie lit the end of the cigarette and tossed the lighter back into her room. She inhaled profoundly, holding the smoke before blowing it out of her mouth. With my free hand, I covered my nose, doing my best not to breathe in the smoke. I hated secondhand smoke.

"I want to get a tattoo done tomorrow, and before you say you can't go with me, let me tell you that you're coming. It's an order," she said, her voice low so only I could hear. I laughed. Sophie believed that the walls could listen to you, so even though we were close enough to talk, she preferred to text on the phone or speak outside.

"I don't think I can Sophie. I'm helping my mother prepare for next Friday's dinner with Owen and his family."

"The guy who sleeps with women because he believes this will stop people from finding out that he loves dick too?" I chuckled, nodding my head as the breeze hit the back of my hair. "Damn, I wish you all the best, but you're still coming with me," she said, inhaling one last time and blowing the smoke. She took the cigarette from her mouth and offered it to me again.

"Sophie, you've gone alone since you were sixteen. I think another day of you going alone will not make a difference," I argued, taking the cigarette from her and putting it out. I hated it when she smoked. The last thing I wanted was for her to get lung cancer.

"What happened to experiencing life, Quinn? At this point, you will die a virgin and rot in your room. You might as well give up your dreams and become a nun. Summer is almost over, and school is about to start. It's our last year before we go to college. Can we at least enjoy our last week before we start hell? You're coming."

I handed her the cigarette, and she got rid of the evidence. "Fine, what time are you going?" I asked her.

"In the evening, I have an appointment at six. Oh, and Quinn, happy birthday," she said all too happily, handing me a gift card to Audible .

"Thank you," I said with a smile. She remembered my birthday, and my parents didn't even acknowledge it. "Now, please go; you need a shower. You have paint all over you," she teased before entering her room. I blushed as I remembered the reason for this paint on my skin.