Page 49 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

I squeal when Rafael’s hands slide around my lower back and behind my knee, sweeping me clean off the floor. My arms clutch desperately at his shoulders as he steps out of the elevator. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying my bride over the threshold,” he answers as he strides towards the huge door across the little lobby the elevator opened up to. “Isn’t that the tradition?” He types in the code quickly, and the lock unlatches with a low beep.

“You’re supposed to carry the bride over the threshold of your house, not some hotel room,” I scold but can’t swallow my amusement.

“My house, hotel room—same difference. You’re still my wife.” He grins down at me as he steps inside, kicking the door shut behind us and flicking on the lights. The breath catches in my throat as I take in the scene before us.

We’re on the top floor of the thirty-story hotel, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city sprawling below us. But it’s not the stunning view outside that steals my breath.

It’s the view inside .

A trail of red and white roses creates a path from where we stand, dotted with flickering LED candles that cast pools of golden light on the floor.

The romantic display leads through the elegant living area, past the sleek kitchen visible through the glass doors, and disappears into the bedroom beyond sliding glass doors left tantalizingly open.

My husband carries me along this floral pathway, and my heart starts doing acrobatics in my chest.

The roses end at the majestic bed positioned in the center of the room, draped in pretty beige silks and piled with fluffy pillows. Champagne chills in an ice bucket beside the bed, next to a bowl of?—

Is that whipped cream?

Heat flares in my cheeks as my imagination runs wild, but then my gaze shifts to the bedside table, and my blood turns to ice.

Oh. Oh fuck.

A wide tray waits there, laid out neatly: a tattoo machine, sealed needles, disposable ink caps, medical gloves, a small razor, antiseptic wipes, stencil paper, plastic wrap, and medical tape.

I don’t need him to tell me what they’re for.

“You are my wife, and you will bear my name and heirs. But I want something even more. I want you to bear my mark.”

My stomach churns. There’s a lot to unpack in those words. Bear his heirs? I haven’t thought past tonight, and he’s already planning our kids—plural? I push my racing thoughts aside and focus on the immediate threat. “You already have your mark on me, Rafael. You have for years.”

He raises a brow in question, and I slip off my heels. I make my way to the bed, perch on the edge, and lift my right foot, twisting my ankle so he can see the ink on my heel.

Rafael moves closer, dropping to his knees in front of me. His warm hand closes around my ankle, and my clit fucking throbs at the contact.

It wasn’t a sexual touch , I try to convince my brain, but my body isn’t buying it.

His brows pull together as he studies the ink, and I follow his gaze, breathing through my mouth. Maybe if I don’t inhale his drugging cologne, I can get my growing arousal under control.

It’s a small, very small design of azaleas, and nestled in the middle of the stalks, almost imperceptible, is an R .

I got it the night after Stacey recruited me, the night after I ran away from the cramped apartment all five of us shared because I regretted not getting the tattoo together with them.

“I was initially going to get a smaller replica of the tattoos you and the guys have over your scars. And because I wanted it somewhere it could stay hidden, I chose my heel. But it was painful as fuck, so I settled for just this.”

I shudder as the phantom pain washes over me. I screamed so loudly with tears streaming down my cheeks throughout the whole ordeal, that my throat was raw for days afterwards.

With my ankle loosely imprisoned between his fingers, Rafael’s thumb begins a slow, torturous massage over the spot, and I have to grip the silk comforter to keep from falling apart. The sensation shoots straight to my core, making me ache in ways that should be illegal.

When he presses into my instep, a throaty moan escapes before I can even think about stopping it. His head snaps up, eyes wide with startled fascination, like he wasn’t expecting that sound from me. Heat floods my cheeks, blooming all the way down my neck as I blush furiously.

That brings a devastating, cocky smile to his lips, and then his thumb digs in again with just enough pressure to make my back arch right off the bed. My breath catches in my throat, another needy little sound slipping out .

The bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“This pleases me,” he says finally. “And I particularly like seeing the initial of my first name. But now it’s time you carry my mark somewhere everyone can see it.

So no one has a doubt in their mind who the fuck you belong to.

” His last words come out as a growl as he moves up my body and captures my lips with his.

My hands fly to his shoulder, clutching him to me as I kiss him back with all the lust that’s been building throughout this entire insane day.

Too soon, he breaks away with a pained groan that mirrors my own frustration. “We can continue this later.”

Later? Is he fucking kidding me right now? How am I supposed to wait for later?

But he’s already walking away, disappearing behind a door I assume is the bathroom. Sure enough, a trickle of water comes from inside, and when he emerges again, he’s patting his hands dry with a clean white towel.

He tosses the towel on a chair and strides back over. At the bedside table, he turns to the tray and tugs on the disposable gloves. He doesn’t bother asking where I want the tattoo—apparently, that decision has already been made.

My heart skitters nervously as he takes the antiseptic wipes and peels a few out. He places them within easy reach before finally turning back to me.

My left hand is lifted, and the glare of the overhead chandelier catches on my rings. He pauses, clearly mesmerized, then leans down to press a loud kiss right over them. He definitely loves seeing his mark of possession on me. And if I’m being honest, so do I.

Then he turns my hand over, exposing my wrist, and I gulp audibly. Fuck—of all the spots for him to choose. This is going to hurt like hell, isn’t it? But then to my surprise, he moves lower, gently dragging the wipe across the inside of my forearm, just below my elbow.

Relief floods me. Still sensitive, but better than the wrist.

He wipes the area two more times, then picks up the razor and gently passes it across my skin, shaving off the fine hair. When he goes over the newly sensitized area with another wipe, I jolt.

“You good?” he asks, glancing up.

“The wipe just felt colder than before,” I explain, and he nods understandingly.

“I’m going to be careful. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

He applies the stencil solution to my arm, then lifts the transfer paper, and I see the design for the first time. My breath catches.

He put so much thought into this.

The design is a feminine version of his and the guys’ identical tattoos, but it’s so much more than that.

The azaleas are vibrant, their green stem seamlessly intertwining with the black stem of a blooming iris positioned right beneath.

To the right of the irises, the lily of the valley takes over with its drooping bell-shaped buds that gradually morph into elegant tulips.

But the arrangement is slightly different from theirs. In my version, the other flowers form a circle around the azaleas, like a protective shield. And right above the azaleas, within that protective ring, sits a small crown.

My heart melts as I understand the significance.

“ Rafael, ” I whisper, my voice thick, touched in a way I can’t explain.

“Do you like it?”

I nod frantically, my throat closing up with overwhelming feeling. “I love it.” I couldn’t have come up with a more beautiful design that sums up our situation so perfectly.

Even when I was across enemy lines, Rafael protected me. And this evening, when I was paralyzed by fear and doubt before walking up to Rafael, the guys surrounded me with support and protection that filled me with warmth.

Family . They’re family. And they’ve been family. Through thick and thin.

I’m the only one of us who doesn’t have a scar from the showdown with Rafael’s father fifteen years ago. Because they protected me. They’re always protecting me, even when I don’t deserve it.

Tears slide down my face, and I let them flow freely, unashamed to show my emotions. Rafael just smiles softly and picks up the tattoo machine.

Here we go.

For the next couple of minutes, the only sound is the soft whirring of the tattoo machine as Rafael works on my skin.

And maybe it’s because it’s Rafael wielding the needle, maybe it’s his calming presence, the significance of this moment, the way he touches me like I’m something sacred, or some combination of them all, but I feel no pain.

None at all. Only the strange, buzzing pleasure of being marked by the man I love.

My heart is brimming with emotions, pounding steadily for him as I watch his bent head, the intense concentration on his handsome face. The soft buzz of the machine moving across my skin is surprisingly hypnotic, and to my shock, it’s actually getting me worked up.

By the time he draws the last line, my panties are soaked through, and I’m trying not to squirm.

When he finishes shading and coloring the tattoo to absolute perfection, he gently wipes the area clean. A thin layer of ointment follows, soothing my skin before he covers the fresh ink with a breathable bandage.

I can’t wait for everyone to see it. I can’t wait to proudly show it off.

As he cleans up, disposing of the used materials and packing away the rest of his tools, my gaze falls on the black titanium band on his finger. That’s my brand on him.

My clit throbs insistently, and I lick my lips, watching him with mounting impatience. He glances back at me and must see something in my expression because he goes still.

“Emilia?”

I don’t know what sexual demon possesses me, but I’m not fighting it.

Keeping my gaze on him, I unzip my dress and hike the fabric up, bunching it around my waist as I scoot back to the middle of the bed.

Then I spread my legs wide, letting him see exactly what his tattooing session has done to my underwear.

He drops the items in his hands with a clatter, not even glancing back as moves towards me almost compulsively, his gaze locked firmly between my thighs. Can he see how wet I am?

“Shit, you’re completely soaked through,” he groans as he climbs on the bed, his voice rough with desire. “Did me tattooing you do this to you?”

Every single second of it.