Page 1 of Where Sinners Repent

Chapter 1

Roxy

This one song won’t leave my brain. Throughout the entire appointment that I just finished, I found myself humming it over and over until the man huffed and stuck in his ear phones.

Pausing the cleaning, I grab my phone and click on the song. Immediately Poison by Alice Cooper blasts through the small space.

That’s better.

Now I can close up shop with the actual words being played to the melody.

It’s dark out, so anyone walking past can probably see me singing and dancing to the song like an idiot. It doesn’t stop me.

My wrist aches and my eyes are bleary. All the signs of a good day of work. Who cares about a little carpal tunnel if it’s caused by being able to put my artwork on someone’s body permanently. In my opinion, it’s the highest honour someone can give me. They trust me and my skills enough that they pay me hundreds of dollars to drag a needle over their skin.

The song swaps to another, and I continue wiping down the tables, muscle memory from doing this thousands of times taking over. With the music so loud, I barely hear the bells jostling above the door.

I swear I locked that.

“I’m closed,” I shout, peering my head around the corner.

My blood goes cold.

It’s been three torturous years filled with sleepless nights and constant looking over my shoulder, since I’ve seen that face, though I remember every stark detail. Because it’s a face that often visits me in my nightmares.

Though no dream captures the essence of cruelty that wafts off him. No figment of my imagination can portray the pain and horror promised in his smirk.

“Jacob,” I choke out.

It makes me sick, the way my body reacts to seeing him.

Weak. Scared. Small. All the things I thought I had let go of.

His lips twitch in something resembling a pout, but it looks wrong on him. Any other emotion besides cruelty doesn’t suit him.

“Surely you can stay open for an old friend,” he murmurs, stepping further into the studio.

I can’t believe I didn’t lock the door. I always lock the door.

Growing up with fear of the darkness means you always lock the door.

I straighten, running my sweaty palms down my dark, oversized shirt.

“Why are you here?”

The way my voice shakes makes his eyes gleam with satisfaction.

Moving through my studio, he pretends to inspect the place. Eyes sliding over my framed drawings and flash tattoo art. His fingers skim over the photo pinned up of me and Maddy, a small quirk of his lips twisting at it, before moving on.

The thought of his fingers, of his breath, being in this place makes my teeth grind. This place is mine.

The only place that has ever been mine.

“You’ve been a tricky little cat to hunt down,” he muses, picking up my tattoo machine and flipping it in his fingers. Turning those green eyes on mine, he grins again. “Imagine our surprise when we find out you’ve been hiding in Havenport, like a little rat.”

If I weren’t filled to the brim with dread, I’d roll my eyes. Because, of course, I’m in Havenport. It’s the only place that offers me protection from them.

The very fact that he’s here defies the ruse of safety I had built in my head.