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“There’s writing in them,” I say, staring at them like I’m looking at a sacred piece of art.

She nods, resting her chin on my chest and gazing up at me. “The initials of people I’ve loved and lost.”

I trace my finger along the initials of a purple butterfly.

SW.

“Sonya Whitton,” she explains. “My nanny.”

I move my fingers, doing the same with the other two, which haveMB.

There’s no question who they’re for.

Melissa Bellini.

Marta Bellini.

I run my thumb over oneMBand then the other. “When did you get these?”

“The day after the funeral,” she whispers. “Twelve hours after you threw me out of your car and onto my parents’ driveway.” She pokes her nail into my chest. “I actually considered having your initials tattooed on my ass with devil horns above them.”

I smack her ass, holding myself back from laughing at her comment.

“At least I took you home,” I say, faking offense. “That should have earned me a butterfly.”

She runs her nails across my chest. “You most definitely didn’t deserve a butterfly.”

“Fair. I’m not exactly butterfly material.”

“I could put you as a moth.”

I run my finger down her spine, and her body shakes.

“You can tattoo my initialsanywhereandanyhowyou want. I’d love to show my ownership on this perfect body. Though”—I give her ass a light squeeze—“I’d prefer no devil horns or moths.”

She lays her head on my chest, as if running out of all her energy. “Your turn to tell me about your tattoos.”

“I’ll tell you aboutone,” I say, faking to be more annoyed than I am.

“Can I choose it?”

I perform ahave at itgesture.

She taps her lip. “Technically, I gave you two since I told you about the butterfliesandinitials.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Take your pick.”

“The praying hands on your neck.” She runs her fingers along my neck, over my Adam’s apple.

“They’re praying hands.” Praying hands with light emitting from them.

“Yessss,” she drawls out, shooting me an annoyed look. “But when and why did you get them?”

“All the men in my family were raised not to fear death. When I was ten, my grandmother told me she was never afraid to die. When I asked her why, she gave me a necklace with prayer hands similar to this.” I place my hand over hers on my throat. “She said she didn’t fear death because she knew when it happened, she’d go somewhere beautiful. While I’m not sure what awaits me in death, I like to give myself a little hope.”

My grandmother was the only person who knows this story.

She went with me to get the tattoo when I was fifteen. It was my first tat, and my mother nearly lost her shit when she saw it. I got grounded for a week, and when I refused to tell herwhyI chose the praying hands, she grounded me for another.