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"This is amazing," I breathe out, turning to find him watching me with an inscrutable expression on his face. "What is it?" I frown.

"Hell girl… you have no idea what it's like to see my initials on your skin," he says, his hand hovering on top of the tattoo.

A crazy idea springs into my mind, and I blurt it out before I can think it through.

"Let me give you one, too. Matching tattoos. You can get an A. Here," I point toward his neck, one of the few areas on his body that's not covered in ink.

"You'd draw it on me?" he asks, almost as if he can't quite believe it. I nod, and a wide smile spreads all over his face.

"Do it!" He turns, giving me the side of his neck—the same area he'd done my design on—quickly going through the basics of tattooing.

Not a moment later and I have the tattoo gun in my hand, the tip touching his skin as I try my best to keep my fingers from trembling.

I can't believe he'd so readily agree to this, especially since I know he'd kept his neck clean of any ink so that it doesn't peek out from his clothing. With the initial I'm drawing, it's bound to show and let everyone know who he belongs to.

And that makes me feel fuzzy inside.

I focus on getting the letter right, doing a cursive A instead of a standard one.

As I cross the middle of the letter, I add a drop of blood falling to the ground to emulate my own design.

Although it's nowhere near his level of skill, the letter is clean and simple.

After I add one last stroke, I lean back, surveying my work.

"I think it's nice," I tell him proudly.

He takes the mirror, inspecting it, and a reverent smile appears on his face.

"Thank you," he says, unable to take his eyes off it. "Now I can have you with me always too."

It takes a while before we can move on to the next tattoo, mostly because Vlad seems to be quite enamored of his new piece of ink, grabbing the mirror and staring at it every few minutes.

"Have you thought about what you want there?" he asks when he finally puts the mirror aside.

"Yes," I say.

I'd had a long time to think about what I'd like to take the place of the odious cross that reminds me of my worst nightmares.

In the beginning, I just wished it was gone. But with time, I realized that it's still a mark that proves I've been through fire and made it out alive.

Picking a pen and a paper, I start showing him how I'd like the cross to be changed into a different design.

Embedded deep in my skin, the scar is pretty gnarly, the edges a deep pink due to the fact that it had never healed properly. Just thinking of the pain it had caused me for months on end renews my anger towards Sacre Coeur and everything I'd had to endure there.

"That's amazing, hell girl," Vlad finally speaks when I'm done. "And it embodies everything you stand for."

I nod, pleased he gets it.

After we go over all the details, he begins by sketching the image on my skin. Soon, he's picking up the tattoo gun, starting to etch the permanent ink into my skin.

This one is more complicated, and it takes twice as long to get everything right.

"What do you think?" he asks, his tone hopeful as he puts the gun down, handing me the mirror.

Taking it, I start studying his work, immediately in awe by the level of precision.

"You're really good at this." I praise him, and I swear I note the smallest tinge of a blush on his cheeks.

Smiling to myself, I continue to look in the mirror.

He'd perfectly depicted a woman being burned at the stake, the body of the cross serving as the wood holding the woman captive, her hands and feet tied, her mouth gagged.

Small flames engulf the stake as the woman slowly succumbs to her death.

Still, her eyes are unflinching as she's facing her execution with courage, knowing it's not her fault she's being punished.

It's just the world she lives in that's unaccepting of those differences.

She bears the mark of the devil, and her entire life she's been shunned for it, everyone seeking to condemn her for something that was not her fault.

But in the end, even as she knew her life was going to end, she preferred dying for her principles and ideas, her chin raised high, her convictions unwavering. She never once considered changing to accommodate other people's beliefs—never taking the easy way out.

And just like that, I find myself in the drawing. My entire life I'd been conditioned to be a certain way, condemned the moment I didn't fit other people's mold.

But as I stare at the tattoo—the permanent drawing making its house on my skin—I can't help but be happy with all the choices I'd made.

Yes, I'd suffered for being different. But I hadn't conformed. I'd stayed true to myself, and I'd been rewarded for the entire ordeal.

Placing the mirror down, I direct my gaze toward him—my prize.

Because I would have never reached this point if I hadn't held on to my true self. I hadn't let those nuns beat obedience into me. I hadn't let the mean girls destroy my core. And because of that I am here.

With him.

Both with our idiosyncrasies, both matching and complementing the other. I know we were made for each other, our very beings vibing with one another.

"It's perfect," I whisper, tears already at the corner of my eyes.

He's managed to illustrate exactly what I'd been feeling for years.

"You're perfect, hell girl." He comes closer to me, his thumb under my chin as he prompts me to look into his eyes.

"You're the bravest, most wonderful woman I've ever met.

And because of that, I know how lucky I am that you forgave me," he says, his mouth coming down on my cheek, his tongue slipping out to lick one tear.

"I know how tightly you hold on to your principles. And I know what it must have cost you to forgive me." He continues, moving to the other cheek and repeating the movement, swallowing up all my tears. "For that, I can't tell you how grateful I am."

I raise my eyes to his, noting the ravage on his features as he gazes at me with love, sorrow, and more love.

Adoration.

It might be more apt to call it adoration. The way I know he could never last without me. The way I know I could never last without him.

And suddenly I'm at peace with my past. All the resentment settles down in my heart as I realize everything happened not to tear me down, but to strengthen me.

Make me strong enough for him.

"Why, Vlad, you might actually sound like a romantic." I poke him playfully, a little overwhelmed by emotion.

"Of course." He smiles, the tension from his face gone. "I'm adopting romance as my new religion, with you as its goddess."

His glib tongue never fails to amaze me.

"Is that so?" I ask, trailing my finger down his chest, once again marveling at the hard wall of muscle that meets my touch.

"Yes," he rasps out, his voice full and husky.

"I'll worship you," he starts, and my pulse picks up, "I'll kiss the ground you walk on.

" My breath catches in my throat, his words starting to affect me, the room suddenly too hot.

"I'll be your servant, your whipping boy, whatever you want me to be," he continues and my eyes snap shut, his deep voice caressing my senses and making me shiver.

"Hmm," I murmur, feeling him so close, yet too far, "your arguments are pretty convincing," I manage to say, "I guess I could allow you by my side," I add cheekily, and he smirks. "But I thought you were my God." I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Still am." He winks at me, seductive arrogance dripping from his crooked smile, his dimple prominent and begging to be kissed. "But what's a God without his goddess? We rule together, hell girl." His hand comes up to my face, his thumb brushing against my lips as he backs me into the wall.

"Remember, there's no Vlad without Sisi." His intent gaze on me, I don't miss the way his pupils dilate, his entire body ready to ravish me.

One arm snaked around my waist, he effortlessly lifts me in his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist.

"And no Sisi without Vlad," I complete the sentence, his mouth claiming mine in a searing kiss that has my toes curling in excitement.

Holding on to him, I let him show me just how much we're one half of a whole—always needing the other to be complete.