Page 23 of Inked Desires

AReS

I’m completely lost.

Andrew has shattered every ounce of self-control I had, to the point that I can no longer tell right from wrong. Pulling away from him has become impossible—and besides, it’s already too late. He’s embedded himself in me like a stubborn parasite I can’t shake off.

Slowly, I peel myself away from his burning body. His arms slip from my shoulders with reluctant ease. When I look into his eyes, I find no guilt there. Only the lingering flush of his cheeks.

“You okay?” I ask, just to be sure.

He gives me a shy, charming smile.

“Yeah,” he says, rising from the couch and reaching for his clothes.

I regret moving away immediately. His perfect ass disappears beneath a pair of black boxers, depriving me of a truly divine view.

“Have you thought about the tattoo?” I ask, pulling my T-shirt back on.

He shrugs, hesitation flickering in his eyes. Gently, I take his cold hands in mine.

“Pain is different for everyone,” I add, hoping to ease his doubts. “I won’t lie—it hurts. Some people can’t take it. But you… you already faced my machine, and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You stayed incredibly calm.”

“Really?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed, his little nose scrunching slightly.

“Yes. Don’t let that asshole ruin this for you,” I say firmly.

If he wants to move on, he has to face his fears. He pulls one hand free to rub his forehead.

“Okay,” he finally says.

“Take off your shirt. I’ll prep the stencil.”

He can’t change his mind. This design is his. It was always meant for him. On anyone else, it wouldn’t mean a damn thing.

When I return, Andrew is already lying down, shirtless. I ready his skin before applying the stencil.

“It’s kind of weird being shaved by someone else,” he mutters.

“I can shave other areas too, if you want to get used to it,” I reply with a laugh.

His grimace makes me burst out laughing.

“No thanks.”

“The offer stands if you change your mind,” I tease, peeling off the stencil.

I pick up my tattoo machine and power it on. Just before I begin, I glance at Andrew one last time. He’s gone a little pale, which isn’t surprising. The last tattoo he remembers ended in disaster. If only he could recall the good ones...

“Ready?”

He nods, and I touch the needle to his skin. His body tenses, fingers digging into the leather. The first few minutes are always the worst—pain must be tamed before it becomes manageable.

He breathes deep—first through his nose, then his mouth. Silence falls between us, broken only by the hum of the machine. For the first time, I’m not solely focused on my work. I’m watching him too, ready to stop at the slightest sign he wants out.

But he doesn’t.

Gradually, his body relaxes.

“You okay?” I murmur.

“It hurts, but… I can handle it,” he breathes.

My heart clenches. I’m proud of him. Andrew is the bravest person I know. He stares his fears down without flinching, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

“I knew you could do it,” I say, genuinely proud.

He’d be the perfect client for a tattoo apprentice—no flinching, no twitching. He makes my work smooth as silk.

Hours pass. He lets me work in peace, without interruption or even asking for a break.

Finally, I shut off the machine and clean his back one last time.

“All done,” I tell him.

He exhales deeply and stretches, his neck cracking alarmingly. I pull off my gloves and step closer, gently massaging his tense shoulders, carefully avoiding the freshly inked area.

A low moan of pleasure escapes him, and the sound resonates through me like an invitation. If his skin weren’t so raw, I’d already have flipped him over on the table and picked up right where we left off. I’d take him apart, make him come undone before even touching him with my tongue.

“You alright?”

Beneath my hands, he nods slowly, then lifts his head.

“Thanks. Can I see it?” he asks, his voice a little brighter.

I step down from the table and offer him my hand. He takes it with a soft smile, and I lead him toward the mirror. Before I turn him toward his reflection, I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in his intoxicating scent.

“Look,” I whisper.

But his eyes stay locked on mine. Then, after a long, hesitant pause, he finally turns his head… and freezes.

Shit.

He hates it.

I was sure he’d love it. He’d approved the sketch—so why the look on his face now?

“The scar…” he whispers, visibly shaken.

He’s talking about the iron burn.

I gently rest my hands on his shoulders.

“I designed this piece to cover your scars. So you wouldn’t have to carry that memory on your skin anymore,” I explain.

“This tattoo… it was really for me?”

“Yes.”

His lips part. His throat tightens. Tears shimmer at the corners of his eyes. He raises a hand, but before his fingers can brush the fresh ink, I catch his wrist carefully.

“Stop. It needs to heal first. Let me take care of it,” I say, stopping him gently.

He turns his head slightly, slips free of my grip… then suddenly throws himself into my arms.

“Thank you! I hated that thing on my back and now… now it’s gone!” he exclaims, voice trembling with emotion.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him tightly, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

“You’re sure you like it?”

I feel his lips graze my neck. He pulls back slightly and meets my gaze.

“I love it. You have no idea what it means to me,” he says, eyes full of intensity.

A weight lifts from my chest. The fear he might regret it had been clawing at me.

I kiss his forehead, release him, and lead him back to the table. With precise movements, I wipe away the last traces of blood, moisturize the skin, and apply a protective wrap over the tattoo.

“Alright. You can get dressed now.”

He carefully slips his sweater back on and lets out a soft sigh.

“I need to go back to Robert’s…”

Just the name makes my stomach turn.

“Why?” I ask, tense.

“My clothes are still there.”

“I’ll buy you new ones.”

“You can’t just replace my entire wardrobe.”

“I can. And I will. You are never stepping foot in that bastard’s house again. End of discussion.”

I hear him groan in frustration, but I ignore it. Arguing would only fan my anger. Doesn’t he get it? I’d rather lose everything than let him go back there. What next—he wants us to kiss in front of that son of a bitch?

“Come with me. I just want to grab my stuff,” he insists, over and over again.

I sigh and finally turn to face him. Going there is a mistake. I know it. My rage is still too close to the surface, and it would take just one look to set me off again—one excuse to break that asshole’s face a second time.

“Bad idea. And you know it.”

He throws his head back, eyes to the ceiling. The gesture is full of frustration… and somehow, weirdly adorable.

A loud creak slices through the silence.

No way.

I locked that damn door before we even started.

But right in front of me, it opens—slowly.

My blood turns cold.

“Knock knock. It’s me,” a contemptuous voice calls out.

“You really should think about closing all the windows.”

Jace Benton.

I’ve only ever seen him in photos, but that’s enough to recognize him. His face is just as vile in real life as it is on screen.

And he’s pointing a gun at Andrew.

I take a step forward.

“Move again and I’ll blow his head off before you can even scream his name.”

His smug tone, the dominant stance—everything about him makes me want to crush him into dust. My body reacts before my brain can even give the order.

“Get down, Andrew!” I shout as I hurl myself at him.

The impact knocks him off balance. The gun ends up trapped between us, our bodies struggling to gain control. I try to wrench it from him, but he holds on. So I hit him—my knee slams into his shin. He stumbles, grabs my shirt, and drags us both to the floor.

I land on top. I recover just in time to slam my fist into his face. I need to keep him down, buy enough time for Andrew to get away. He’s been through enough. Jace is never getting near him again.

I glance back. Andrew is gone. Relief rushes through me.

Then a gunshot rings out.

Everything freezes.

I look down.

A gaping hole in my chest.

Shit.

He got me.

A guttural laugh bubbles out of him, full of satisfaction and revenge. Then the pain hits—raw, tearing, blazing. I grit my teeth, struggling to stay upright. My trembling hand grips his throat, my fingers trying to crush the life out of him.

My vision blurs. My strength fades.

Then I fall backward.

Air explodes from my lungs. My hand slips from his neck. But the barrel of his gun is now pressed to my temple.

“You really thought you could play the hero?”

Jace’s voice oozes disdain. His eyes gleam with sick joy. He tightens his grip around my throat, leans in closer.

“He’s not even worth it. You’re gonna die for a little slut, asshole.”

I spit in his face.

“I’ll be waiting for you in hell,” I whisper.

A scream slices through the air. A blur of black curls flashes above me, and suddenly, Jace’s crushing weight is gone.

I push myself up with effort, gasping.

Andrew is on top of him, a knife in hand, stabbing over and over, a storm of uncontrollable rage driving each blow.

Fuck.

Jace tries to fight back, but it’s already too late. Andrew doesn’t stop. He stabs again and again, eyes wild and lost in a blind frenzy.

Pain explodes in my chest, dragging me back to my own body, my own reality. I look down. The blood is pouring out too fast. Far too fast.

I’m going to die.

A metallic glint catches my eye. Jace’s revolver lies abandoned on the ground, forgotten in the struggle. Gritting my teeth, I crawl toward it, every movement a scream of agony.

“Baby… get off him,” I whisper.

Andrew doesn’t hear me. He keeps going like his life depends on it.

I force my muscles to move, dragging myself toward him like a dying shadow. A slug would be faster than me.

When I finally reach him, I stretch out my hand and gently grasp his arm.

“Stop,” I say louder.

My touch freezes him. He turns his head, dazed.

“Drop the knife, Andrew. Get off him.”

I lift the revolver to make sure he understands.

He blinks several times, as if waking from a nightmare. His eyes drop to his hands. Blood. On his arms. His sweater. Everywhere. Then he sees Jace—his mutilated body beneath him.

He recoils instantly, as if burned. The knife slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor.

“What… what did I do?” he breathes, horrified.

“You survived.”

I raise the gun and press it to Jace’s temple.

He doesn’t get to die by Andrew’s hand. That weight isn’t his to carry.

The gunshot echoes through the room.

Jace’s body jerks once, then collapses into nothing.

I remain still. I wait for the flood of memories to rise, for the ghosts of the dead to drag me down again. But nothing comes.

I’m still here. Still clear-headed.

“You’re hurt…” Andrew whispers.

His trembling hands grab my shoulders and pull me onto his lap. My chest crumples against his legs.

The gun slips from my fingers. I no longer have the strength to hold it.

“I remember…” he murmurs above me. “I remember you.”

A smile pulls at my lips. It took a bullet for him to remember me. Ironic.

“That’s… nice,” I laugh, but the sound turns into a ragged, bloody cough. Blood drips from my chin.

“Little bunny, you need to call an ambulance,” I whisper.

Not for me. I’m done. I know it. But him…

“I already called the police earlier. When I went to get a knife from the kitchen.”

Smart. But he should’ve run. Now he’s going to have to deal with this whole mess.

A flash of memory hits me. Our last conversation—before he took my money. Before he turned his back, convinced I’d betrayed him.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” I whisper.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Ares. I know now that you want me.”

He shakes his head, refusing to let me go.

But the pain is fading. The burning is dying out. It’s strange… almost peaceful.

Andrew’s face becomes blurry.

I raise a weak hand and stroke his cheek, savoring the softness of his skin one last time.

“I love you…” I breathe.

“No! No, Ares, this isn’t goodbye!” he screams.

I laugh.

Yes. It is.

Everything fades to black.

And the only thing I carry with me into the dark… is the certainty that he loves me too.