Page 43

I t’s been six weeks since that horrible incident, and really, I want nothing more than to put it behind me.

But Balor’s been treating me like spun glass— fragile, delicate, like I might shatter if he looks at me too long.

And I swear to God, if that man doesn’t come to his senses soon, I’m going to kick his fine, overprotective ass.

Lucky for me, I have a slew of cousins who are all too happy to offer support, backup, and a little scheming.

Today? We’re calling it a spa day.

What Balor doesn’t know is that it’s not just a spa day.

Because I need to reclaim something.

Not just my body, but my narrative.

He didn’t even blink when I told him the girls and I had a full afternoon of massages and facials planned.

Didn’t question the change of clothes in my bag, or the slightly-too-chipper smile I gave him before blowing a kiss on the way out.

Which is how I ended up here, in a private room in SOHO INK , lying face down on a padded massage-style chair while my cousins circle like excited sharks.

“Are you sure about this?” Leanna asks again, her wide eyes bouncing between the sketchbook and my shoulder.

“Yep,” I say, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest.

“But what will your mom say?” Michaela chimes in, always the cautious one.

“My mom told me to go for it,” I say, smirking a little. “Which is a hell of a lot different from when I asked for one at sixteen and got grounded for a month.”

“I want one too,” Shelly mutters, flipping pages in the sample book. “But I think Ono will have a fit.”

Aella rolls her eyes. “I’m not surprised you didn’t tell him. I mean, Sammy would lose his shit if some dude put hands on me, even for a tattoo.”

She shrugs, completely unfazed, and I grin.

We’re all so used to the possessive, growly men in our lives it’s just become part of our daily reality. But right now? Today’s about us.

“Actually,” I say, sitting up a little as the door opens, “I thought about that.”

Right then, a woman steps inside, petite, confident, with streaks of purple in her dark hair.

“Hello Lucy,” she greets me warmly, and then her eyes widen as she takes in our group.

“Wow. You really meant it when you said your whole family was coming, huh?”

“Nah. This isn’t even half,” Michaela speaks up.

“Um, yeah. Hope that’s okay?” I ask and wait for her nod.

“Very,” April says with a grin.

“So, everyone, this is April Jones. She co-owns SOHO INK with her husband, and they’ve been happily married for seven years. Two gorgeous kids, and a lot of experience making people feel whole again. April, prepare to be bombarded with ten thousand questions,” I say, stage-whispering the last part.

April laughs, clearly unfazed. “Bring it on. I’ve had bridal parties in here. Nothing scares me.”

The room shifts, relaxing, and so do I.

April turns back to me, clipboard in hand. “So, Lucy, what are we covering?”

I meet her eyes, then slowly lower the robe from my shoulder.

The room goes quiet.

My cousins stop mid-giggle.

Even Shelly stops flipping pages.

The scar is still healing.

Pink and raised, slightly angry.

The first jagged curve of a letter I wish I could unsee.

D.

But I already talked to April about this, and I know she can do the job.

April's face softens immediately.

“Okay. We still going with your plan?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice even. “I don’t want to see this anymore. Or at least, not like this.”

She nods. “Are we doing monochrome or full color? You were undecided when we last talked,” she reminds me.

I reach into my bag and pull out the carefully folded sketch.

April takes the drawing from my hands, and the second she sees it, her breath catches.

The girls go still, all their chattering silenced as they lean in to see.

“Holy shit,” Aella whispers reverently.

Shelly nods, her eyes wide. “That’s badass .”

“It’s beautiful,” Michaela says softly, then looks up at me. “And so are you for doing this.”

April holds the paper like it’s a sacred relic, her gaze moving over every curve and color of the design. “You drew this?”

I nod once, nervous energy thrumming in my veins. “I’ve been working on it since the scar started healing.”

“It’s not just beautiful,” she says. “It’s fierce. It’s bold. It’s a declaration.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying, but my voice still cracks.

“That’s the idea.”

April gives me a small, understanding smile and gestures to the chair. “Let’s do this.”

As I settle in, the robe slipping down to expose my shoulder, the buzz of the machine kicks up.

That first sting makes me tense—but only for a second.

Because it’s not just pain.

It’s purpose.

It’s power.

It’s reclaiming a part of me that was taken.

The girls stay nearby, voices soft and supportive, occasionally brushing my hand or cracking a joke to keep things light.

But even with all the love around me, I’m focused on the hum of the machine and the heat that starts building in my chest.

A phoenix.

Not broken.

Not ruined.

Not anything like those first days after that mess.

Some tabloids got wind of the story. Only in their version my attacker killed himself after being caught.

Balor was on it immediately. He had whole teams dedicated to putting out every blip of what happened.

And for those internet trolls who persisted? Well, let’s just say they found themselves in a world of virtual— and actual —hurt.

Being married to a genius hacker had a whole lot of perks.

But this thing here? Getting this tattoo.

It was equal parts putting all that behind me and showing my beautiful husband what he meant to me.

This was me taking my life back.

Being reborn.

The phoenix is the symbol of rebirth, after all.

Anyway, this feels right.

“Does it hurt?” Leanna asks, gnawing on her lower lip.

I shake my head. But it does hurt a little.

When April begins to shade in the wings, layering sapphire, emerald, and storm-gray into the flames, I can’t help but smile.

Those are our colors.

Mine and Balor’s.

My phoenix and my sword.

My rage and my redemption.

My beginning and my forever.

And beneath it all, one name.

The only name that’s ever mattered.

Balor.

Branded into me by choice.

By love.

By fire.

“Damn, Lucy,” Michaela whispers.

“It’s beautiful,” Shelly says.

April studies it with a sharp eye. “This is so powerful. And like we’ve talked about, we’ll layer it just right. You won’t ever have to see what was under it again. And maybe, after, you might consider doing some sketches for me?”

My eyes sting. But I smile. “That’s an idea.”

I settle into the chair again, gripping a stress ball Leanna hands me.

The buzz of the machine fills the room, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m not just surviving.

I’m healing.

And Balor?

Yeah, he’s going to freak.

But he’ll understand.

Because beneath all that gruff possessiveness, he knows exactly who I am.

His.

But mine too.

Ours. Always.