ONYX
Reeve “Onyx” Pierce spoke through ink, not words. As the quiet force behind Hellbound Studio, he’d built a reputation on blackwork that didn’t fade and loyalty that didn’t bend. He’d never wanted anything that wasn’t worth keeping forever.
Elena Dane was young, brilliant, and gifted in ways she didn’t yet understand, but she trusted the wrong man. Onyx saw the threat immediately, and once he decided Elena was his to protect, there was no undoing the claim.
1
ELENA
Even from outside, I could hear the faint buzz of tattoo machines layered beneath low voices and music. I paused on the sidewalk longer than necessary, my sketch portfolio tucked against my chest.
Hellbound Studio wasn’t a walk-in shop. The Hounds of Hellfire MC owned it. Actually, they owned most of Riverstone, GA, where I currently lived.
They didn’t advertise for customers because they didn’t need to. The chairs were never empty. And open spots for artists were filled by word of mouth. I was beyond lucky to have met Ink and Annika DeLuca at a showing at Belladonna Gallery, the largest art gallery in Atlanta. The art hadn’t been a style I enjoyed much. Abstract expressionism that relied on chaos without order beneath it all had never been my thing. But striking up a conversation with Ink and his wife had made the time spent there more than worthwhile.
It had taken all of my courage to mention that I was interested in an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor, much to my mentor’s chagrin. Jareth Marks was a huge deal in the Atlanta art scene, but while he was interested in tattoos, he had noexperience with them himself. My only option for getting the kind of expert guidance I needed was to look elsewhere. And Hellbound Studio was the best place to learn. Plus, it didn’t hurt that my apartment was in Riverstone, where they were located.
“You can do this,” I mumbled, my stomach fluttering with nerves.
I’d wanted this for too long to let fear win now, so I pasted on a confident smile I wasn’t feeling as I pushed the door open. I stepped into a world that fascinated me and found Ink waiting at the reception area.
He looked up the moment I stepped inside and chuckled. “Do you carry that sketchbook with you everywhere?”
Heat crept up my neck. “I—yeah. Pretty much.”
I shifted my grip, suddenly hyperaware of how out of place it must have looked at the exhibition at Belladonna Gallery. My parents would’ve hated that I’d brought it there. They’d always believed in dressing appropriately for every occasion, and a worn sketchbook didn’t fit their idea of respectable. They’d actually been supportive of my passion for art in the beginning, until I took it in a direction they didn’t approve of. No matter how intricate and beautiful, a daughter who was a tattoo artist would never fit with their image. So their disappointment wasn’t exactly new.
My mentor, Jareth, at least, had understood why I liked having my sketchbook close. Inspiration didn’t wait for convenient moments. And even with a memory that never failed me, I still preferred to get ideas down while they were fresh.
“I guess it paid off, though.” My smile was self-conscious. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t had it with me that night.”
He snorted. “You’re here because your art is fucking unreal. That sketchbook just made it obvious.”
“Thanks.” My blush deepened. “That means a lot coming from you.”
“Not sure why you look so surprised. You already earned your spot in that program you’re in.” He gestured around the studio. “This is just the next step if you want to take your art to the next level.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Compliments still caught me off guard. Teachers had noticed my talent early, but no one ever quite knew what to do with it. Or how to explain it to my parents. They’d understood why I’d chosen a specialized art program over a traditional college, but transitioning to the human body as a canvas baffled them completely. It was putting a strain on our relationship that I wasn’t sure how to bridge.
“I definitely am.”
He stepped out from behind the counter, gesturing for me to follow. “Good. You wouldn’t last here long if you weren’t.”
As we walked, I took everything in. The steady buzz of machines blended into a rhythm that felt almost meditative. Sessions were done behind closed doors to maintain client privacy, but Ink opened a few so I could meet some of the artists.
The first guy barely glanced up from his station but offered a quick nod. The next grinned like he meant it. With Ink showing me around, no one questioned whether I belonged. The interactions were brief but easy. And somewhere along the way, the tightness in my shoulders eased.
We stopped near one of the open booths, and Ink turned back to me. “I want to evaluate your skill level on fake skin first. Get a sense of where you need improvement and techniques you haven’t learned. When I’m confident you can handle a giant, grumpy-ass biker, you’ll work on a client with supervision. Even after you're on your own, if you run into a stumbling block or they request something you don’t know how to do, no one will mind if you ask for help. We all want you to succeed.” He shot me a crooked smile. “We have a badass reputation to uphold.”
He went over the hours and expectations, which aligned with what I’d understood coming in. As he spoke, I nodded, committing every word to memory. This was what I’d worked toward. The nerves were still there, but they’d settled into something steadier now.
I felt him before I saw him, heat pooling low in my belly without warning. The air felt like it shifted, and I stilled, my breath catching as my body reacted ahead of my brain.
I turned and stared at the man who stood a few feet away, his presence filling the space without effort. He was tall and broad-shouldered, built solid without being bulky. A black T-shirt clung to his torso beneath a leather vest, the sleeves stretched tight over muscular arms with black ink visible on his wrists and neck. Heavy blackwork that had been expertly layered.
My gaze dropped before I could stop it, catching on his scarred knuckles. Desire flared stronger in my core as I wondered how his hands would feel on my skin. But the picture in my head had nothing to do with him giving me a tattoo. It was unexpectedly erotic for a girl who’d only had a peck of a kiss before.
It was a good thing I had an artistic eye because I was still able to take in the rest of him. His dark hair was cut short, and his eyes were a rich, dark brown. When they met mine, it seemed as though the world narrowed to that single point of connection.
