Page 97 of Konstantin

Before I can wonder long, he steps in with a man covered in tattoos on every visible part of his skin, his face framed by the metal ring in his nose.

Who is he, and what is he doing here?

Konstantin says something to him in Russian as they both look over at me, and it gives me this eerie feeling I can’t put my finger on.

A maid enters, carrying a chair before placing it in the middle of the room.

“Come, Tessa. Sit.” Konstantin pats the leather upholstery.

Another spike of unease rolls through me. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Sit, Tessa.” His features harden, and I know arguing won’t help.

Reluctantly, I stand and sink into the chair, hoping this isn’t where I get executed. The man with the tattoos steps forward, his eyes scanning me briefly.

“This is Boris,” Konstantin explains. “He is here to give you a tattoo.”

My heart skips, my eyes widening. “Awhat?”

Konstantin doesn’t even flinch at my shock.

“A tattoo,” he repeats, as though it’s no big deal. “A small, black circle with a red club in the center, right here…” His fingertips glide up the back of my neck as he peers at me with that cold, unflinching stare. “It’s for your protection. This way, my enemies will know you are mine as soon as you show them that mark.”

I swear this man does everything with the guise of protection. If it wasn’t so annoying, it might actually be romantic.

“No.” The word bursts out of me. “I don’t want it.”

The last thing I need is to have a piece of him etched on my skin forever. Or until I can pay to get it removed, which I really shouldn’t have to do.

But Konstantin doesn’t give me a choice. He steps closer, his fingers brushing my hair from the back of my neck.

“It’s necessary.” His voice softens, almost gentle, but the finality in it is unmistakable. “Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you at all.”

He laughs, a cold, grated sound. “It doesn’t matter, malyshka.” His hard knuckles draw down the side of my face, making my skin crawl with both desire and apprehension. “I get what I want.”

I don’t have time to argue further as the artist moves behind me, preparing his tools.

Konstantin’s fingers intertwine with mine, his grip firm as the needle starts its work, piercing my skin. The sting is sharp, but the pressure of Konstantin’s hand in mine is strangely comforting.

It’s funny, really. Or maybe not that funny. But the feeling of the needle going in, sharp and relentless, the small punctures to my skin, reminds me of something familiar.

Every time I used to cut, that moment of pain, that second when the blade would sink into my skin, was a relief. And this? It feels similar. That same burning sensation, but this time I’m not in control, and I hate it.

Every time the needle hits, I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I stare at Konstantin, my eyes filled with anger and something else too. Something I hate to admit.

“It’s almost done,” Konstantin says. “I’m sorry if this is causing you any pain.”

How sweet is that? He’s sorry when he’s the one forcing me to do this.

Time drags on as the artist works, the ink settling on my skin, marking me to the man I swore I’d hate. But now that hatred hassomehow morphed into more of a strong dislike.

They do say marriage takes work, right?

When the man finishes, Konstantin’s gaze shifts to the tattoo, his expression tightening briefly before he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “It’s perfect.”

The artist shows it to me through a mirror, and thankfully, it’s small. The man covers it up and steps back while Konstantin takes my hand, helping me to my feet. My skin is tender, but I can handle the discomfort.