“I’ve spent my weekends trawling bars and clubs looking for a replacement for my ex,” Rose says, still staring out the door. “And now I discover all the hot guys have been hiding out here.”

“Your ex was scum.” Christos unpacks the new supplies Torment miraculously procured overnight: tattoo kits, paint, ink, tattoo machines, sketch pads, even an autoclave for the staff room. “Shouldn’t be hard to replace him.”

An affronted Rose sniffs. “He was the love of my life.”

“He was the love of your bed.”

Duncan and I share a glance. Christos and Rose have been fighting their attraction for years. Although he’s never said anything to her, Christos confided in me that he was relieved when Rose’s ex broke it off. He’d seen the bruises on her face beneath the makeup and he was finding it hard not to get involved.

“Do we have a name?” Duncan eases himself into his high-end titanium hydraulic client chair, the likes of which I have never seen before. With two headrests and two armrests, it allows clients to sit, straddle, or lay in multiple positions in padded leather comfort.

“Torment’s Tattoos,” Rose says. “To honor our benefactor.”

Christos sticks his finger down his throat and pretends to heave.

“How about we stick with our old name?” I hand Christos a knife to cut open the next box, then settle into my new, cushy artist’s chair. “I mean, this is temporary digs until Slim gets back on his feet and gets the studio fixed up.”

Rose sighs. “How will we go back after this? I’m already ruined for tat studios for life.”

“Because we’re a team and we’re loyal.” I spin around in my chair, marveling at the lumbar support and padding where padding is needed. Maybe we can convince Slim to upgrade the furniture when he’s done the renos.

The door opens—no tinkly bells in Torment’s studio—and we go into full client alert.

“Hey, Sia.” Rampage waves as he walks in. “Hope you’re prepared to be busy. Torment spread the word that you’re here now, and everyone’s planning to come by to check you guys out. You’re part of Redemption, and we look after our own.”

Rampage does not lie. We have the busiest day we’ve ever had in the history of Rabid Ink. Fighters line up outside to book appointments weeks in advance after Rose tells them we’ve already filled our walk-ins for the day. I ink the Redemption logo at least six times on various body parts, including one ass, and accept four commissions for custom designs.

At seven p.m., Christos finally calls it quits to head out to a gig. Rose leaves with him, and I go to the café to grab some snacks to keep Duncan and me going for the next few hours.

By the time I return, we have three fighters in the fancy glass-and-leather waiting area and Ray is standing beside my chair.

I scowl at Duncan, who is making an appointment for Homicide Hank, and he shrugs. “He said he had you booked for the rest of the evening.”

“He doesn’t,” I murmur through gritted teeth. “And I don’t want to see him.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Look at him. I wasn’t about to tell a guy like that to get lost. I’m an artist. I need my fingers unbroken.”

With a huff, I hand him his food, and brace myself for more humiliation. But as I near the chair, humiliation is not what I feel. Instead, my body heats, my knees tremble, and my mind flies back to the moment we kissed in the alley and the searing pleasure of his touch.

Hot and intense, his eyes bore into me as I make my way to my station. But this time, I know where he stands, and it isn’t anywhere near me.

“Hi.” I fold my arms and lean against the counter, feigning a nonchalance I don’t feel in the least. “Long time no see.”

He draws in a deep breath and stares at me, drinking me in as if I quenched a thirst in his soul. “Sia.” My name is a soft whisper on his sensual lips. “Jesus. Those boots—”

“Are made for walking. Which is what I was about to do. I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“Neither did I.”

After waiting a few fruitless moments for him to elaborate, I say, “I heard you missed your fight yesterday. Didn’t think it would ever happen.”

“Had to clean up a mess. Sort myself out.”

Puzzled, I frown. “Cryptic. My favorite type of explanation.”

“It was what it was.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Even more cryptic. But then, that’s you.”

Ray laughs, easing the tension between us, and then his smile fades. “You weren’t at the fight.” A statement, not a question.

I give a casual shrug although I am already falling under his spell. Arousal floods through my veins, and my voice drops to an unintentional breathy whisper. “I had stuff to do.”

He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers leaving a delicious prickle behind, awakening the memory of his hand in my hair, the caress of his fingers, the pressure of his hand around my neck. Pleasure ripples down my spine. If this isn’t sexual chemistry, I don’t know what is. But how can I be so attracted to the kind of man I’ve been so careful to avoid? And why is he touching me after he walked away?

“You never missed a fight before.” His voice, deep, dark, and smooth, rumbles over me even as nausea grips my stomach. He noticed me at the fights. Does he know I was there to see him?

My hands clench and unclench by my sides. We stare at each other for so long, tension crackles between us, and I fully expect my cheeks to burst into flame. Finally, coward that I am, I break.