Ink Her

By Elle Sabine

After centuries of hunting, Stephen has finally found his vamp. But Vienna, a small-town veterinarian, isn't waiting to leap into life at a vampire's side.

Stephen finds his vamp at a county fair in Central Michigan. As had been predicted centuries earlier, he discovered her while in pursuit of his passion—tattoo art. Just because he has found her, though, doesn't mean all will be easy.

Vienna has her own career and plans for what her future will be. She accepts Stephen as a lover, but is suspicious of a relationship with a man who seems to thrive with nothing more than a mobile studio and an SUV.

But Stephen is relentless. He has no intention of backing away and every intention of solving her problems. Vienna is his everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Totally Bound Publishing
• Release date: Nov 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786510952

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Ink Her

ISBN # 978-1-78651-095-2

©Copyright Elle Q. Sabine 2016

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright October 2016

Edited by Jamie D. Rose

Totally Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2016 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

Warning:

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

INK HER

Elle Q. Sabine

After centuries of hunting, Stephen has finally found his vamp. But Vienna, a small-town veterinarian, isn't waiting to leap into life at a vampire's side.

Stephen finds his vamp at a county fair in Central Michigan. As had been predicted centuries earlier, he discovered her while in pursuit of his passion—tattoo art. Just because he has found her, though, doesn’t mean all will be easy.

Vienna has her own career and plans for what her future will be. She accepts Stephen as a lover, but is suspicious of a relationship with a man who seems to thrive with nothing more than a mobile studio and an SUV.

But Stephen is relentless. He has no intention of backing away and every intention of solving her problems. Vienna is his everything.

Dedication

You are my treasure.

Your soul sustains me.

I am your shield and your shelter,

I follow wherever you might go.

Here and in all creation,

Now and forever more,

I pledge to you all of me,

In defense of your lifeblood,

Your spirit, and your soul.

Elle Q. Sabine

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Airstream: Thor Tech Inc.

Hello Kitty: Sanrio Company Ltd.

Converse: Converse Inc.

Levi: Levi-Strauss and Company Corporation

Polo: PRL USA Holdings Inc.

Doc Martens: Dr. Martens International Trading GmbH

Cadillac: General Motors Corporation

Triumph: Triumph Designs Limited Corporation

Indian: Indian Motorcycle International LLC

Harley-Davidson: H-D USA LLC

Pinterest: Pinterest Inc.

Hitachi: Kabushiki Kaisha Hitachi Seisakusho dba Hitachi, Ltd.

Bluetooth: Bluetooth SIG Inc.

Chapter One

Vamp [vamp]: n. a seductive woman who uses her sensuality to exploit men; vb. to use feminine charms upon; seduce.

With an inward sigh, Stephen cleaned the red leather barber’s chair he’d installed in the center of his vintage Airstream. In his free time, he’d converted the old camper trailer into a chic, retro mobile shop. Complete with beautiful red wood floors, black cabinetry, sleek black granite counters and burgundy paint, the Airstream was a shock to the senses for those venturing inside. Its aluminum exterior gleamed and his consulting desk sat on the artificial turf beyond the door, but the interior was eerily dark when the lights were down and reminiscent of his favorite British library when fully lit.

Not that it was a library—not his and unlike any of the libraries in his master’s lairs. It was, however, the finest tattoo parlor he’d ever built, and that was saying a lot, since he’d been inking canvases since the 1200s.

The art and the creature comforts to engage in his passion had changed significantly since the days of Celtic crosses, sailors’ anchors and gypsy markings. In the modern world, that meant inking bright red hearts, watercolor rainbows and Hello Kitty on giggling girls barely old enough to be out of sight of a guardian, as well as the occasional Celtic symbolism. In truth, that was why he still engaged in these fruitless weekends at festivals and fairs. While he had no fascination for the mindless, half-drunk ninnies, he still enjoyed their warm blood, and he still hunted for his own vamp.

Swearing softly, Stephen tossed the disinfectant cloth into the trash. He’d stayed faithful to the prophecy that his Lord Valiant had made centuries ago, but it was hard to remain staunch after eight hundred years of hunting. Some—with less advice from their ruler—had hunted even longer and others more successfully, but Stephen could quietly admit he was tired. Lord Valiant had prophesied that Stephen would find his vamp via his treasured art form, but perhaps it was time to put this version of the Airstream in storage and take on the task of inspecting every shop between New Orleans and Toronto.

Or, he could leave the service of his Lord Valiant’s heir, Master Valor, and take up hunting for his vamp full-time.

The thought teased, but he shook it off quickly. Master Valor would someday be his lord, and he was well-disposed to Stephen, as was Oghman, the Dannan cousin who ran the master’s affairs.

Stephen shook his head, mentally freeing himself of the morose mood.

I don’t know why you don’t consign that man’s file to the trash bin and refuse to treat those poor creatures anymore.

The disgruntled voice reached him from beyond the door. Stephen stilled and lifted his head. The fair was over, the revelers gone by midnight the night before, and Stephen remained only to pack up the items still sitting beyond his trailer. What confrontation was about to take place on his doorstep? He’d heard no other, and it was still early morning, barely past dawn.

"Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur," returned a musical voice, disembodied. Stephen blinked, his heart faltering for a moment before picking up a new rhythm. ‘Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time.’ How true that was, he thought. His hands shook involuntarily as the sweetness continued, I love those pathetic beasts. They did not choose their master.

The man snorted. Your attitude is so obvious that you might as well have it inked on your forehead. I see the tattoo artist hasn’t left yet. Perhaps he’d do it for you.

With studied casualness, Stephen strode to the front of the trailer, with nothing more urgent in his mind than getting a glance at the creature he would worship forever-after. His heightened senses could easily hear her heart beating at the same rhythm of his, a telling sign that their lifebloods—their Vitam—were one.

She replied before he could tug open the metal door, her voice full of mirth. Papa, I’d be happy to tattoo it on me somewhere other than my forehead, but you always told me such things were for the foolish.

You are being foolish, the man scolded, though Stephen could hear the affection in his tone. And you’ll be bankrupt soon, too. You know very well he won’t pay you, and I’ll have to send the entire bill to collection. Uncharacteristically, Stephen fumbled the lock then hauled open the door, desperate to see the pair.

The sight before him was one for the ages. The poor female standing in the fairground street, hands on hips, immediately beyond his artificial turf front yard and waiting room, looked more like a drowned lemur than a woman. Her brown hair was plastered over her forehead and ears, and she wore safety glasses the size of goggles that were splattered with spots of brown. He glanced lower, but her clothing was in no better condition. She wore an old set of scrubs with a ragged lab coat over them. These garments were the opposite of charming, or even pristine—the faded pink scrubs stained with wide brown spots washed-out by laundering, the lab coat ruined and marked by fresh muck of indeterminable origin in a grotesque caricature of a Jackson Pollock painting. Her feet were garbed in the scruffiest pair of Converse tennis shoes he’d seen since the 1950s, and it was impossible to tell what their original color had been. All of her was drenched, as though a full barrel of water had been dumped over her head and left to drain, unencumbered, to the ground below her. Slowly, he followed the water dripping from her down the street, where she’d left a trail of wet footprints behind.

She must have come from the barns.

The older man with his drowned angel, presumably—hopefully—her father, cleared his throat. Didn’t mean to wake you, he said gruffly. Just walking past. No need to be angry.

Stephen stopped, blinked, looked down at himself and almost blushed. He wasn’t angry, but he hadn’t shaved and he knew his hair and beard must look scruffy and unkempt. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth, though, thankfully, he wasn’t close enough to the pair to inflict any sort of morning breath on her. He wore only a pair of running shorts that didn’t conceal anything of his form, and even his tattoo—etched around his navel piercing—was visible.

He didn’t normally show that to anyone.

Stephen raised his head again. The angel was staring at him, but she was also shaking. Awkwardly, he rubbed his forehead. Let me get you a towel, he blurted, trying to invest a bit of compulsion into his voice without sounding like an ass. Heard you wanted a tattoo. Don’t leave.

Turning, he rushed inside, praying that the pair didn’t flee. He’d be doubly damned if he had to chase them down. Using the preternatural speed he’d been granted at his rebirth, Stephen pulled a tight T-shirt over his head and zipped himself and his running shorts inside a pair of worn, but clean, jeans, then picked up a stack of towels and