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“I should have brought the duct tape,” he sighed.
“Should have brought the handcuffs.” I rolled over and grabbed his face, kissing him again.
32
Sasha
“What’s that?”Roan asked, his fingers skimming across one of the tattoos on my ribcage.
I managed not to laugh by grinding my teeth together, but I squirmed away from the sensation. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Ask about your tattoos or this?” He grazed his fingertips along my ribs again.
Jerking away, I sliced a warning glare at him.
“Are you ticklish?” His eyes lit up with a mischievous spark.
“I will break your fucking hand if you touch me like that again. Understood?”
Chuckling, he went back to looking at the black ink all over my body. He’d been inspecting them for I don’t know how long, perched on top of me and moving my limbs like a mannequin to see whatever he wanted. I had no idea why I let him.
He touched the same spot as before, but much harder. “Do you like cats?”
“What?” I glanced down to see what he was talking about. It was a black cartoon cat in a top hat. “No. I mean, I don’t care about them. They’re just cats.”
“Then why’d you get it?”
“Because I’m a thief.” I arched a brow, waiting for his moral outrage. He didn’t even blink.
“What does this one mean?” He tapped the skull on my chest.
“That I’m a murderer.” I held his gaze as I replied. To his credit, he didn’t look away or show any sort of emotion. It’s not like he should have been shocked, considering I killed two cops in front of him not even a week ago. “And this one,” I continued, pointing to the giant dagger through my sternum, “means I’ll do it if you pay me.”
He shifted closer, propping himself up on his elbow and studying the snarling wolf in the middle of my abdomen. “Is this why they call you the Wolf?”
“No.” I didn’t necessarily mean to answer so tersely, but I wasn’t going to apologize after the fact.
He wasn’t fazed by the brevity of the answerormy tone, like he’d come to expect both. “Then why do they call you that?”
“Which story would you like to hear? The one where I was raised by wolves, or the one where I use them to tear people apart?”
“Ivan said you cut someone up and fed them to a wolf.”
I chuckled. “Ivan is an idiot.”
“So you didn’t kill someone when you were ten?”
“Oh, no, that part is true.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his gaze locked on mine, like he was trying to tell if I was joking. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t. “It was self-defense,” I added. “Life is not kind in Verkhoyansk.”
“That’s where you’re from?”
I nodded.
“So how did you end up here?”
“Do ever stop talking?” I shot back. Did he really expect me to pour out my life story to him? To tell him great tales of growing up in the brutal wilderness of Siberia before touring the slums of Moscow, New York, and Chicago?
“No,” he replied with a grin, turning his attention back to the tattoos, tracing the outline of the script beneath the wolf head. “Do you have a favorite?”
