Tacet a Mortuis (The Elite King's Club 3)

Of course he knew this scary man. Why wouldn’t he.

Bishop’s head cranked over his shoulder, a grin tickling the corner of his lips. “She wants something.”

“I do?” I quirked my eyebrow.

Big scary biker dude’s eyes flew to mine, then he grinned. “What you want, pretty girl.”

“Hey, eyes off.”

Biker dude chortled, then nudged his head towards the hallway he just walked out from. Bishop led the way, his bare muscled back taunting me. We passed a couple of smaller stalls, all set up differently. There must be around four artists who work here. I admire the work hanging on the walls as we continue down. Biker dude walked straight ahead, his stall obviously at the head of the hallway.

“Wow,” I took in all the art. “This is amazing.” Stealing my gaze away from the beautiful colors and grey shading, I looked down at the red seat that reclined into a bed in the middle, and biker dude sat down on his chair, picking up his gun. I gulped.

“You know, I used to work for a studio in New Zealand.”

“Yeah?” Bishop interfered, sitting in the chair beside the bed. “What? Do I need to fly over there to add him to the list?”

I hopped up onto the red leather, grasping the edge. “Don’t be stupid. It never got that far.”

Bishop laughed, his head tilting back and his glorious abs tightening from the motion. “Right, because he isn’t a King. I forgot, you only do royal cock.”

“Bishop!” I snapped, then looked back to biker dude who was putting gloves on. “Sorry, he’s a little…”

“I’m fine.” Then he took his attention to Biker dude. “Lemme do this one. I’ll owe you.”

Biker dude’s eyebrow rose, and then he looked between the two of us. “You don’t owe me shit, and sure.”

“Ah!” I threw my finger up. “Hello, but I’ve never seen your artwork and I don’t know what I want. How about I sketch something up right now and let biker guy stencil it up and then you can tattoo me.” Jesus Christ, I was losing my mind. He wasn’t a hundred percent sober, but I was going to let him tattoo me anyway. Usually, when couples go in to do this sort of thing, it’s romantic. Not us though, oh no. I’ll be getting inked out of hate.

“No deal, Kitty,” Bishop pointed to the bed. “Lay down.”

“Jesus,” I whispered, laying back.

His hand came to my bare rib, and his thumb glided over it softly, the tenderness of his touch sending tingles down to my toes. I looked at him, catching his stare right at me. A moment passed between us, my heart thundering in my chest. Then the gun sounded, breaking our eye contact and the silence, and Bishop dipped the tip into the little pot, then stretched my skin out over my rib cage just below my bra line. A sharp sting sliced through my flesh and I flinched. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Biker added, finally jumping in. He stood and tilted his head at the spot. “That’ll be tender, sweetheart. So you’re an artist?” he asked, and I appreciated the attempt at taking my mind off whatever I just allowed Bishop to indent into my skin—for life.

“Yeah,” I cleared my throat, trying to take my mind out of the pinching pain. The gun stopped and then started again. “I drew for him, his custom pieces. I loved it.”

“Why’d you leave?” I didn’t look at him, because I was too afraid to move.

“Well,” I let out an exhausted breath. “I was running away from this psycho.” Biker crackled out a laugh.

“Ah, I see. I’ll have to check out your work some time.” It turned out, I made a mis-judgment. Big scary biker dude is actually a nice human and not scary at all.

“I’d like that.” Flinching, twenty minutes passed before the gun stopped and Bishop threw off the gloves.

“Oh God, I’m scared.”

“It’s done.” He stood from the chair, looked down at his work, and then a dark smirk crept onto his mouth.

Biker’s lips pinched together, holding in his laughter and I swung my legs off the bed, walking to the full-length mirror that was on the other side of the room.

“Bishop!” I squeaked. His laugh reverberated in the background. Just below my bra line was the letters B V H. Deep breaths. In and out. I twisted my torso, actually liking the placement, and it’s not like he splashed B I S H O P over me in big letters. It was subtle, yet faintly possessive. He came up behind me and my eyes flew to his in the mirror. His strong, tanned muscles against my tiny frame.

His laughing died out when he saw my face. “You like it.”

“I sort of love it.”

He seemed to sober a little, his eyes looking less frantic.

I clapped my hands together. “My turn!”