The Tattoo Artist (La Petite Mort #1)

32. Chapter 32

thirty-two

Quinn

N o. No. No. OH MY GOD!I shook my head furiously, hoping this was all a dream or more like a nightmare.

Dark black hair, almost like the night sky.

The art on his chest. The one I drew on him.

Those green eyes.

Alexander.

Alexander was Deimos.My gaze snapped toward his hand, and that's when I saw the same butterfly tattoo, not the sign of death.

"I—I'm her?" The girl from the accident he told me about.

I was her.

I didn't understand how that was possible. Surely, I would know if I lost my memory, right? I remember the last two years of my life and fragments of my childhood, but now that I really think about it, I don't remember much.

"I—I don't understand," I stuttered.

Deimos, I mean Alexander, stood up, the wet patch on his jeans evident along with his erection.Alexander closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. The same hair I tugged and pulled on just minutes ago. He breathed out a frustrated sigh. I pulled the sheet around myself, holding it tighter with one hand as I approached him.

"You—" I accused him, stopping myself from going any further.

I was furious.

He lied. He played me.

I kissed Alexander—and what did he do? He made it seem as if he didn't know me. "You lied to me," I accused him. "All this time, and you lied," I shouted.

Suddenly, every single moment and interaction with Alexander flashed through my head, and my eyes widened.

"It was you all along. You heard me tell Sophie about Mr. Walsh, and not even two fucking weeks later, he's dead," I screamed.

"Why? Why did you kill Owen's dad?"I demanded an answer.

"He touched what's mine," he gritted out through clenched teeth.

I scoffed.

Did he seriously expect me to find his possessiveness hot? Like I would forgive him for lying to me? He made me go crazy thinking I was falling for two men simultaneously. I turned around to pick up the shirt off the ground. Alexander didn't move or say anything—he just watched me.

I dropped the white sheet, letting it fall to the floor, and slipped his shirt over my body. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, I closed my eyes and sighed. "Does Sophie know who you are?" I asked if my best friend from childhood knew the truth and lied to me.

Alexander didn't utter a word, which made me angrier. I wanted answers. I snapped my head, looking at him. He shook his head. "And my parents? Do they know?"

He nodded his head.

"I was sixteen when I first saw you—" I paused. "You—You're twenty-three," I stuttered in disbelief.

Oh my God!

"The age of consent is six—"

"Don't you dare," I warned him. I knew that the age of consent was sixteen. I FUCKING KNEW THAT!

What I wanted to know was why my parents kept it a secret, and he continued, almost like he could read my mind.

"I did not lie. I just didn't tell you. The doctor said the chances that you ever regained your memory were slim. He said it would do you more harm than good if I told you the truth. Your parents found the letters I wrote you," he paused, meeting my gaze. In that second, I knew that whatever he was about to say was going to break me.

"The day of your accident, your parents were thrilled to know you lost your memory. They said it was God's gift. He was giving you a second chance to be pure again—cleaning you of all your sins," he finished. His body was tense, and the look in his eyes was dangerous. He hated my parents.

The tears that had filled my eyes escaped when I blinked. I allowed them to fall freely. How could they? How could my parents lie to me? I laughed without any humor.If they only knew the sins that took place in this very room and on his bed.No wonder they treated me like a caged butterfly they wanted to keep in her cocoon. This entire time— they weren't protecting me. They were protecting me from finding out the truth.

My head was hurting, and I was confused. Looking at his hands, Alexander had the butterfly tattoo—the one I had come to love, the same one that was tattooed on me. But when I saw him two years ago as Deimos, he had the sign of death—the same sign that hung around my neck.

"Your tattoo," I said, pointing to his butterfly. "Deimos had the sign of death, but you have the blue morpho butterfly. How?"

He closed the gap between us and kneeled before me, cupping my face. His thumb caressed my cheek. "The blue morpho signified rebirth. You, Princess, are just as rare as a blue butterfly. The blue morpho is a wish granter, granting me the wish for you to remember me. I wanted you to recognize either one of the tattoos. That necklace had been around your neck once before, and I hoped if you saw the tattoo, you would remember, but it seems you respond more to my butterfly," he confessed.

I was still confused about how he could have two different tattoos on his hand, and he continued, "You'll be surprised what a little tattoo cover makeup could do," he confessed.

I licked my lips. This man kneeling before me was giving me clues from the very beginning. I had so many questions running through my head, and the first one that popped out was blurted without thought. "Why did you kill that man two years ago? "

"He was getting himself off watching you paint," he said, his voice full of venom remembering that day. "He deserved to die," he added.

"Am I a virgin?"