Inked Heart (House of Ink #5)

Chapter One

Quiet Calculations

Damien

The thing about numbers is that they don’t lie. People do.

People lie with their words, their smiles, their promises, and their intentions. They lie with the way they look you straight in the eye while planning to stab you in the back. But numbers? Numbers are honest. Numbers are predictable. Numbers behave exactly the way they’re supposed to.

Which is probably why I like them so damn much.

I push my glasses higher on my nose and stare down at the spreadsheet glowing on my laptop screen.

The office above House of Ink smells faintly of antiseptic, ink, and coffee that’s been sitting too long in the pot downstairs.

It’s a smell that’s become strangely comforting over the past couple of years.

Below me, the shop is alive. Tattoo machines buzz in that familiar electric hum that’s basically background music in my life at this point. Someone laughs, loud and sharp, and I’m pretty sure it’s Skye. The woman has the kind of laugh that could wake the dead and make them join the party.

Then there’s the low rumble of my brother’s voice. Laine.

Even through the floor I can tell when he’s talking to a client versus when he’s messing around with the crew. Right now, it’s the relaxed tone he uses when he’s working. Calm, focused, and confident.

The guy’s a damn artist. I don’t mean just with a tattoo gun but in general. He can bring any idea to life on skin or on paper.

I glance around the small office space, taking in the stacks of receipts, invoices, and paperwork I’ve been sorting through for the last three hours. Running a tattoo shop isn’t just needles and ink. It’s insurance, payroll, supply orders, licensing fees, and taxes. Lots and lots of taxes.

And because my older brother would rather chew off his own arm than deal with accounting, that responsibility landed squarely on my shoulders. Which is fine. I’m good at it.

Better than good if I’m being honest.

I type a few more numbers into the spreadsheet, double-checking the totals against the receipts in the stack beside me. Everything balances out perfectly, just like I expected.

See? Numbers don’t lie.

A sudden burst of laughter erupts from downstairs, followed by Skye’s unmistakable voice. “Oh, my God, you brought the good ones!”

That gets my attention. I lean back in my chair slightly, listening. Laine says something I can’t quite make out, and then there’s another voice. Soft, warm, and familiar.

My chest tightens before my brain even fully registers why. Quinn.

I freeze for half a second, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. Well ... hell.

I should have known the moment Skye got that excited tone in her voice. Quinn Thomas has a habit of showing up at the shop with baked goods like she’s some kind of sugar-coated fairy godmother.

Cupcakes. Cookies. Brownies. The woman bakes like it’s her love language.

And if the reactions from the guys downstairs are anything to go by, they’re probably already swarming around her like starving wolves.

I sigh and push my chair back from the desk. There’s no point pretending I’m going to get any more work done now. Not with her downstairs.

I stand and stretch, rolling my shoulders to loosen the stiffness that’s settled into my muscles from sitting too long. My t-shirt rides up slightly as I move, exposing a sliver of the ink that runs across my lower ribs.

Most people in town don’t know I’m tattooed because I am not like my brothers. They wear their art openly—arms covered, necks inked, stories written across their skin like living canvases.

Mine stay hidden. On my torso, back, and ribs. Places a t-shirt keeps covered.

I grab my glasses and head for the stairs. The moment I step into the shop, the atmosphere hits me like stepping into warm sunlight.

Music hums softly from the speakers mounted near the ceiling. The scent of ink and disinfectant hangs in the air. Tattoo machines buzz as artists work, clients chat, and the entire place feels alive.

And right there in the center of it all ... is Quinn.

She’s standing near the front counter with a large white bakery box open in front of her. Her blonde hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the light from the front windows. Her blue eyes sparkle as she laughs at something Skye just said.

God, she has a dangerous smile. The kind that sneaks up on you and rearranges your insides without asking permission.

“Damien!” Skye spots me first and waves wildly like she’s directing air traffic. “Perfect timing. Quinn brought cupcakes.”

Quinn looks up and our eyes meet. And for a second the entire damn room feels like it gets quieter.

“Hey, Damien,” she says, smiling, licking frosting from her thumb and scattering every thought I’ve ever had.

She didn’t do it to entice me but, damn, that’s sexy.

Her tongue swipes slow and deliberate over her fingertip, and for a heartbeat, I can’t help picturing what it might feel like if she ever looked at me that way—intentionally, hungry, wanting.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans to keep from doing something stupid like grabbing her and kissing her so I can lick the taste of the frosting from her tongue.

“Hey, Quinn.”

Her gaze drops briefly to the glasses on my face and she grins wider. “You’ve been hiding in the numbers cave again, haven’t you?”

Numbers cave. That’s what Skye calls the office upstairs.

“Someone has to keep this place from going bankrupt,” I reply dryly.

Laine snorts from across the shop where he’s wiping down his station. “You say that like it almost happened.”

“It did almost happen,” I point out. “Three times.”

“Details,” he mutters.

Quinn laughs softly and picks up a cupcake from the box.

“I made chocolate with peanut butter frosting,” she says. “Your favorite.”

My stomach flips. Which is ridiculous. It’s just a cupcake. But the fact that she remembers my favorite flavor? That does something weird to my chest.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her.

Our fingers brush briefly and it’s barely a touch. But it’s enough. A small spark shoots up my arm before I can stop it.

Quinn doesn’t seem to notice. She’s already turning to hand another cupcake to Skye.

“You spoil us,” Skye says dramatically. “Seriously, if you ever open a bakery I will personally invest.”

Quinn laughs. “I bake for fun, not profit.”

“You’re wasting your talent,” Alistair calls from his booth.

“Traitor,” Skye mutters.

I lean against the counter, peeling back the cupcake wrapper slowly while watching Quinn interact with the crew.

She fits here. That’s the thing. She always has. Even before she started stopping by regularly. Quinn has this way about her that makes people relax. She remembers everyone’s name, asks about their day, listens when they talk.

She’s sunshine in human form. And the guys eat it up.

Laine finishes cleaning his station and wanders over, grabbing two cupcakes at once.

“You’re going to kill my diet,” he tells her.

“You don’t have a diet,” Quinn replies.

“Exactly.”

She laughs again. That sound does dangerous things to my brain.

I take a bite of the cupcake and it’s perfect. Just like I knew it would be. Rich chocolate cake with creamy peanut butter frosting that melts on my tongue.

Yeah. She could absolutely open a bakery. And I would probably gain twenty pounds supporting it.

“Where’s Emette tonight?” Skye asks casually.

The name lands like a rock in my gut. Quinn’s smile falters slightly. Just for a second before it’s back.

“Oh, he’s working late,” she says.

I glance down at my cupcake so no one sees my reaction. Working late. Sure.

Emette Black has always been good at that excuse. My jaw tightens before I force it to relax. Not my business. Not my relationship. Not my place.

Still... I can’t stop myself from noticing the way Quinn checks her phone a few minutes later. Like she’s waiting for a message. Waiting for him.

Something ugly curls low in my chest and I shove the rest of the cupcake into my mouth before that feeling can grow. Because the truth is ... I’ve never liked Emette Black.

Not in high school. Not now. And definitely not as Quinn’s boyfriend. But that’s a story for another time. Right now, I just stand there watching her laugh with my family, feeling something dangerously close to hope stir in my chest.

And that... That’s a problem. Because Quinn Thomas already belongs to someone else.

And I don’t steal other men’s girls. Even when the guy doesn’t deserve her.

Even when every instinct I have is screaming that she deserves better.

Even when the man she’s waiting for probably isn’t worth the cupcake in my hand.

So instead of saying anything, I do the only thing I know how to do. I stay quiet and I watch. Because sometimes the smartest move a man can make is waiting. I consider myself a smart man.

And I’ve always been good at waiting.