Six months for a previous client isn’t bad when I consider new clients are on a three year waitlist, but this is what happens when everyone votes you the world’s best tattoo artist.

According to Inked’s poll.

As soon as the results were published, my popularity exploded. It doesn’t matter that my studio is located in the coldest part of the globe, people still flock here like it’s a tropical holiday destination.

To clarify, it’s not. Berdsk is a suburb of the biggest city in the Novosibirsk oblast, but the booming mecca of humans and monsters doesn’t make it any warmer, especially this time of year.

The frosted window that overlooks the street rattles as great gusts of snowy wind blow by outside.

In summer, faces press against the glass to catch a glimpse of me in action, but even the appeal of my art doesn’t draw anyone out on days like these.

I wave goodbye to the Qilin as I step out of the room and inhale deeply. Fuck, the scent is even worse out here.

An illogical part of me wants to hunt it down, bottle it up, and keep it hidden from the rest of the world where only I can savor it, but I ignore the animalistic instinct.

It’s scary the things I already know just by the smell alone—female, human, and unclaimed by any of my kind.

Not that it would matter.

I scowl at the trajectory of my thoughts derailing like a rogue train and make a sharp right in the hallway away from the lobby—away from her—and quickly enter another room.

Yuri, my apprentice, will clean up the one I was just in. With a sigh, I ease onto a bench and pull out a candy bar from my pocket.

The chocolatey goodness coats my tongue, and for a moment, I can breathe again. The sugary treat doesn’t assuage my hunger, but it helps mask the scent that clings to the insides of my nostrils.

My fingers tremble around the wrapper, and I stare in wonder. One of the things I’m most renowned for is my steady hand—how I can work tirelessly for hours without a single twitch.

The vibrations of the needle along with the curled position of the fingers around the irons cause most people’s hands to become catatonic after a time, but never mine.

I attribute this to my Ithaquan blood as my kind has excellent circulation. Before humans and monsters interacted together in the modern world, Ithaqua would weather the frigid blizzards that whipped across the tundra without moving.

Anything else would die, but my kind can simply huddle down because our circulation is so efficient, it keeps us warm—and alive.

Just as I finish my snack, Yuri knocks. “Ready for your next appointment?”

No.

“Yep, send them in.”

The shaking in my hands grows worse with every passing second because I know—I know—who is about to walk through the door.

Her.

The intoxicating smell.

Sure enough, she waltzes in, an absolute vision to pair with her bewitching aroma. Long black hair cascades down her back in waves, swept off her face by a purple headband.

She’s wearing black shorts and a fitted white t-shirt—a very strange choice considering the weather is currently below zero without the wind chill.

A smile wreaths her gorgeous face, and it nearly stops my heart. Her lips are full and painted a vivid red, but it’s her dark brown eyes that draw me in, there’s a sparkle of mischief in their depths.

Over her left brow is an arcade piercing that complements the beauty mark directly under her eye and when she opens her mouth to greet me, I spy the silver ball on her tongue.

My gut clenches, and to my dismay, my stoyuk stirs. Grunting, I turn to the side a bit to cover my reaction.

"Hi! I'm Zhuliya. I can't tell you how excited I am to finally meet you."

Her Russian is perfect, and hearing her voice does nothing to help my body calm down. It's all smoke and sex—just as delicious as her scent.

I want to gobble this woman up in one bite, but the government here has made it very clear to monsters that human women are, for the most part, off-limits.

Both parties need a special permit and must be registered with their oblast to pursue even something casual.

This far east, things are rarely enforced, but it would be foolish to try anything since I'm a well-known name in a fairly large city.

Not to mention, even I know it's not appropriate to take a woman and spread her out on the floor so I can lick her until she comes.

But I want to—oh, great Ulu, how I want to.

“Congratulations on winning the contest." My voice is a raspy echo of what it normally is, but I can barely breathe, let alone talk. “I assume it's your drawing that I'll be using?"

Zhuliya is the winner of Inked Magazine's yearly contest, where candidates pick one of the five themes and draw a tattoo in that category.

This gorgeous creature picked death, and her depiction still stirs something within me. Dark, evocative, sensual, even—like there’s a side of death she has seen that nobody else knows about and it calls to her in unholy ways.

Much like she calls to me.

The second and third place winners of the contest got a cash prize, but the first place winner won a tat by me, including all the expenses to travel to my studio.

Berdsk isn't much to see in summer, but it's downright miserable this time of year, and I can't fathom why Zhuliya picked to come now.

She shakes her pretty head, drawing my attention. "Actually, no. I’ve thought about this a great deal, and as much as I loved the piece that I made for the contest, I want you to draw me something instead. It's a birthday gift to myself, and I know you will do something perfect."

Zhuliya steps forward, ghosting a finger over the ink on my chest. I stifle a hiss at the near contact, and I know I’m fucked.

Thankfully, the enormity of her trust silences some of the lust raging throughout me. What she's tasked me with isn't something new.

More often than not, clients ask me to make them something—I think that's part of my appeal that I immerse myself into my art until I etch a piece of me into the ink.

Before this moment, it's never been an issue. I've never experienced a block to my creativity, but now I fret, wracked with worry that I won't make something good enough for her.

As if sensing my unease, Zhuliya gives me a smile of reassurance. “I know whatever you do, I'm going to love.”

For the first time, I let my gaze roll over her body, drinking in her numerous tattoos, trying to discern what she might like.

The mermaid on her thigh wears the same cheeky grin as she does. The flowers that peek out from her shirt’s collar are delicate and feminine, as is the snake that winds around her right forearm.

On her left, is a half-sleeve of constellations that seem to twinkle against her skin, and two skulls nestle in the bed of flowers above the stars.