Page 70 of The Boy I Loved (Eternal Hell #1)

My mind whirled as I processed what he’d said, confusion tumbling through me. Next time? Did that mean he wasn’t clearing me from another session? Before I could even think of asking anymore questions, he was turning on his heels and heading for the door.

I might just hate him the most right now.

Tristan was a close second. Hell, maybe they were even.

Blowing out an agitated breath, I pushed myself off the bed, gathered a new change of clothes, and headed for the bathroom. The cum was dripping from me excessively, sliding down my thighs, and making me feel sticky .

Sexual frustration tore through my system, but I knew it would fade. Mason hadn’t gotten me off, and part of that was my fault. It wasn’t like I was an active participant. Maybe that was a good thing, though. At least he couldn’t take that from me.

Pain shot through my stomach—tiny pin pricks of a needle as it worked over my skin with persistence.

I tried to open my mouth. For what? I wasn’t really sure.

To scream maybe. But no sound would come out.

I felt completely paralyzed and disoriented, caught on the brink of falling deeper into sleep and waking up altogether.

The pain only intensified though, making my decision easier. Slowly, I cracked my eyes open. Nothing was there at first, only shadows and spots dancing around my vision.

It took a few moments, but when my vision finally cleared, shock punched through my chest. A muffled cry fled my defenses as I squirmed on the bed.

I couldn’t move. It felt like my body was pinned down, something sharp pressing against my wrists.

Wiggling my fingers, a dull throb pulsed through each hand.

“Please,” I whimpered, my eyes filling with tears.

Tristan smoothed my hair back, a small smile tugging at his lips as another man sat in a chair beside him.

I didn’t recognize the other man. He wasn’t old but wasn’t that young either—late thirties if I had to guess.

There was a stitch of concentration between his brows, his back bowed forward as he continued the assault on my stomach.

A loud buzzing filled the room, making me flinch away from it and the sound.

“This will help you,” Tristan stated. “No other man will touch you after this. ”

My lower lip wobbled and a current of despair filled me. I couldn’t tell what was being tattooed onto my skin, just that it couldn’t be anything good. The pain was almost unbearable, like a thousand pricks of pain stabbing me over and over again followed by a wave of agonizing heat.

“We couldn’t get any numbing cream in time,” Tristan explained. “It was a last-minute decision.”

I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. My chest was rising and falling in rapid succession.

I’d always wanted a tattoo, but on my own terms—something that was meaningful.

My mind flashed back to that yellow butterfly I’d seen all those years ago.

That was what I wanted. It was small, delicate, memorable, and sentimental to me.

“Don’t worry,” Tristan continued. “It’s almost done. You woke up sooner than I thought you would but…” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

I felt slightly disoriented, and my neck itched. Heat covered me from head to toe, like someone had cranked the heater to the highest setting.

The man continued to work, the pain still there.

Funnily enough, I was growing accustomed to it.

But the fear of what he was putting on my skin was still at the forefront of my mind.

Struggling again, my thumb grazed the back of my shirt.

My hands were bound, tugged behind me on the mattress.

Whoever had tied them together—Tristan if I had to guess—did one hell of a job.

My ankles were bound as well, preventing me from bending my knees the slightest amount.

“You seem confused,” Tristan continued on with an amused smile. “You went to bed early last night. I came to your room, shot you with a sedative, and we’ve been working all night.” He sounded infuriatingly proud of that fact, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

I blinked, trying my best to get rid of the tears filling my eyes, but it was no use. They tumbled over, sliding down the side of each cheek. I couldn’t even wipe them away. Struggling against my bindings some more, a pained whimper fluttered past my lips.

“Easy,” the stranger reprimanded. “You don’t want me to botch it now, do you?” He raised two brown eyebrows, shooting me a pointed look.

I slumped against the mattress in defeat, my stomach twisting into a series of knots.

Helplessness coiled through my body. Sucking in a sharp breath, I allowed my eyes to flutter closed.

I focused on the sound of the tattoo gun and on my breathing, willing myself to calm down.

Freaking out would only make matters worse. There was nothing I could do.

The warm press of a finger skated across my cheek, swiping the wetness that collected there away. I sniffled, refusing to look at him again. He didn’t deserve anything from me—not my attention, not my gratitude, and definitely not my compliance.

At least the tattoo would be under my clothes where nobody could see, but it didn’t make me feel a whole lot better.

It was still there, and I knew it was there.

The art alone was like a brand. It would be a constant reminder of who had done this to me, and I’d have to live with it for the rest of my life.

The minutes ticked by, seeming to drag on for hours. Finally, the buzzing stopped. Something swept across my stomach—a cloth of some sort—and then ointment was being rubbed into my skin. I gritted my teeth, trying my best to ignore the pain.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in…

“All finished,” the man said proudly, placing something thin and plastic over his artwork. “Try not to get it wet for a couple of days, and when you do, keep the wrap over it.”

Said wrap clung to my skin like an uncomfortable sticker, collecting the heat inside until all I could feel was unruly discomfort.

Tristan thanked the man and gave him permission to leave.

Once the stranger had gathered up all of his things, he turned on his heels and hurried from the room as if he couldn’t leave fast enough.

The asshole barely spared me a glance, like I didn’t even exist to him.

Hell, if he worked here … I probably didn’t.

Tristan placed a hand on my arm and the other on my side. Before I could question what he was doing, he was rolling me on my left arm. I wiggled against the restraints again, annoyance flickering through me.

“Stop fidgeting,” he hissed as if he was reprimanding a disobedient child.

My teeth sank into my tongue, but I forced myself to obey.

He dropped his hands to my wrists and started toying with the restraint there.

After a few moments, it came loose, allowing the blood to circulate freely through them.

A relieved breath fluttered past my lips as I flexed my fingers and pulled my arms in front of me again.

There were red and purple lacerations embedded around each one, but at least they hadn’t been chopped off.

Have I mentioned before how badly my standards have lowered?

“On your back again,” he instructed.

My body was still weak from the drug he’d pumped through my veins and from being woken in such an awful way. It took me a few attempts, but I eventually managed to roll onto my back as requested.

Tristan walked toward the end of the bed and worked on undoing the binding there as well. Once that was accomplished, I scrambled into a sitting position, pressing my back firmly against the wall. A wince captured my features when the movement only aided to tug on my stomach.

“Do you want to see it?” He grinned, flashing his gorgeous, white teeth at me.

I swallowed nervously.

Did I want to see it? There was a part of me that just wanted to pretend it never happened and that it didn’t exist .

Blowing out a breath, I glanced down at my stomach. It took me a few moments to realize what I was seeing. It didn’t help that the words were upside down, either.

Squinting, I slowly began to read over it again and again until it clicked.

I could feel the blood drain from my skin, bile rising to the back of my throat. My shocked gaze clashed with Tristan’s pride-filled one, and in that moment … I wanted to fucking murder him more than I ever had before.

“What have you done?” I asked in a breathless whisper, my voice coming out shaky with the thinning restraint.

Tristan only smirked in response, leaning over so that we were face to face. “Making sure you remain mine,” he replied, quickly closing the distance and pressing his lips to mine.

I didn’t kiss him back.

Even when his teeth nipped at my lower lip and he growled in frustration.

“I’ll never be yours,” I snapped, my restraint finally slipping through my fingers, replaced with an all-consuming rage.

If he was put off by my angry outburst, he didn’t show it. Instead, he smiled in that manic way he did when he was about to do something vile and leaned closer. His tongue darted out, swiping along the corner of my mouth. “Then why do you taste like mine?”

His spicy cologne filled my senses, as if my body needed time to regulate, and only now was I noticing everything around me again. My eyes bounced to the tattoo again, my lower lip trembling with the urge to either cry or bite him the next time he tried to kiss me.

He’d probably like that too much—sadistic fuck.

Right below my belly button in huge lettering was the word: TRISTAN .

The asshole had his name tatted permanently on my body. It was something I’d have to live with for the rest of my life. The only upside was that it was professionally done, but the downside…

It was so big; it would be hard to cover up—assuming I ever got out of this place.