Page 95 of Pink Ink

The risks associated with carrying out this plan are endless. Honestly, from an average, sane person’s point of view, I’m about to take an uncalculated and potentially premature leap of faith.

So I sat on it.

I went to bed disregarding the idea and had every intention of taking our newfound relationship day by day—where I slowly go mad because she doesn’t know the truth.

Except the next day, I saw her tugging up her woolen jersey to hide the marks I left on her body. Later that night, when she thought she was safe in the confines of her bed, I crept in because I can’t stop myself, and saw the smattering of blue-and-pink splotches along her neck.

I was already holding on by a thread at that point.

Then, a couple of days later, I invited her back to my office, and she arrived wearing that same bloody leather harness of hers. It was absolutely fucking magnificent to grab on to while I fucked her over my desk and covered her body in more marks.

After that, all my good intentions flew right out the window.

I decided our fates were sealed.

We haven’t interacted since then, but my student doesn’t know I’ve seen her every single night since.

She fucked up.

Reyna Sinaga fucked. Up.

She should never have let me in, never let me touch her. She fucked up, and it’s too late for her to run from me now. Soon, everything is going to change.

This is a means to prove what destiny has always intended.

She knows me. Sees me.Getsme. No one else has understood me quite like her. She calls me out on my bullshit, looks past my messes, and still deems me worthy. If she pieces tonight together, there will be no mistaking that, whether it was by God’s will or pure fate, Reyna and I were meant to be together.

I slow to a stop when I reach Paddy Hutton’s house. Just as I suspected, lights are flashing from the gaps in the living room curtain.

He’s been on my list for the better part of a year. His life is like clockwork: wake up, go to work, hit the casinos during his lunch break, go backto his soul-crushing insurance job, come home, hit his wife before dinner, then waste away on the couch while placing bets from his phone.

Obviously, he changes it up on the weekend. For example, he might go to a gambling ring with Nolan instead of Barry, or stay at a casino from dawn until dusk and give his wife some reprieve. It keeps me on my toes.

Most importantly, he has zero ties with the Order. I triple-checked. It’s my new rule: only make art out of men Shepherd doesn’t know about. Since Reyna follows my work, it’s now quite literally in my job description to give her a safe learning environment.

Water sloshes up my legs as I jump the fence into their minuscule backyard. There’s only a faint glow spilling out from nearby houses. Combined with the stormy night, it’s difficult to see more than an outline of my surroundings.

With my gloves in place, I slink up the porch and kneel in front of the door. Picking locks is an art form—a boring one, yet art nonetheless. Steady hands and a dash of patience are required. It seems I only enjoy it when I’m watching Reyna do it.

But without Mrs. Hutton home, ol’ Paddy over here is probably too boozed up to remember to add the dead bolt. Like usual. Which means that once the lock slides out of its spot, thanks to the WD-40 I added to the hinges a few months ago, the door opens without a squeak.

My pulse thrums—it’s the excitement of starting a new project. The type of tingles from being overcome with creative vision. It’s my favorite feeling in the world. Second to feeling Reyna’s pussy on my face.

I grab a cloth out of my bag and splash my home remedy onto the fabric, then help myself inside. Like every other time I’ve done it, the moment I cross the threshold, I become a different person. I’m no longer a man, simply an artist.

My senses sharpen, and my everything becomes more vibrant. I can see the depth of color in every grain of the cedar furniture as if the lights were on high beam. The floral-patterned wallpaper pops in the darkness, a cloudy mauve against ivory, and the single dot of vermilion.The flashes of blue and white from the TV glinting against the glass of the China cabinets.

A neat stack of shoes lines the wall next to the front door, and I pick up notes of a fresh bouquet of flowers from the vase in the center of the hallway. They’ll wither away and die soon enough. It’s a pathetic man’s way of apologizing—throwing gifts and money with no intention of changing.

After all the pitiful kills I’ve carried out lately, this will be my redemption arc. My mind whirls with possibilities for staging the scene. It may be my greatest work yet, and it’s all Reyna’s idea. How the tables have turned.

Hopefully, the idiot cop drooling over Reyna can put his two brain cells to use and feed her tonight’s kill. The delusional fuckwit seriously thinks he has a chance with her. It’s rather sad. He’s not her type.

I am, though.

It wasn’t hard to figure out who was leaking the information to Reyna since I only had to watch her walk right into the police station, then come out looking uncomfortable as a man guided her outside to have lunch.

Lawrence McCabe. Twenty-five. Six feet tall. Looks like he reads with his finger. A paladin, and a man who still has his uses and can remain alive—for the time being, that is.