Aria POV
Roman had been on edge since the woman in the red shirt strutted into the tattoo shop. And it couldn’t be called anything but a strut, not with the way she swayed her hips.
I could tell there was history there. What, I wasn’t sure, but the way his jaw clenched when she tried to goad him was a dead giveaway. I’d spent the last three weeks learning his tells.
If I was being honest with myself, I paid him far more attention than I should.
I turned back to the wall of flash art. Rows of roses, skulls, script, wolves, landscapes. Every piece represented a choice someone had made to carry a story on their skin.
I'd spent the last three weeks photographing the club's businesses, and today Ninth Circle was next on the list. I should've been thinking about angles and lighting.
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