Page 153 of The Devil's Thorn

He laughed at that. “You should see the ones on my back. They’re worse.”

I leaned back against the crate behind me, dragging a hand down my thigh. “You do them yourself?”

He smirked. “Some. Others were done by a friend. But yeah, I know how.”

I raised a brow. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

His eyes gleamed like he’d just had an idea. “You want one?”

I blinked. “A tattoo?”

“No, Isabella. A houseplant.” He grinned, holding up the rum in a mock toast. “Of course a tattoo.”

I hesitated. “Depends.”

“On?”

“What kind of tattoo you’re thinking.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, the bottle of rum forgotten on the crate. He walked over to the wall, opened a drawer I hadn’t noticed earlier, and pulled out a small black case. Then another. And another.

Inside were tools—neatly arranged needles, gloves, antiseptics, ink bottles, a compact machine that looked more medical than artistic. My brows lifted as he laid them out on the counter with the ease of muscle memory.

“You came prepared,” I muttered.

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, glancing at me. “And I did almost all of Rafael’s.”

I paused, straightening slightly. “You did his?”

He nodded, casually flipping open a bottle of ink. “Most of them, yeah. Even the one he never talks about. That one on his ribs? He nearly passed out when I did it. Wouldn’t admit it, though. Said it was the vodka.”

A smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Yuri’s voice softened just a little. “He trusts very few people. Letting me tattoo him meant something.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I looked at the tools again. The ink. The machine. And I said, “Alright. Do it.” Only my voice was quieter this time. More serious.

He turned to me, brow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

I nodded once, my chest rising and falling. I didn’t know exactly why I said yes—maybe because the red thread in my hair still itched like a warning. Maybe because part of me wanted to feel the sting of something permanent again. Or maybe because if I let him mark me, it would be my choice. My blood. My control.

Whatever the reason, I wasn’t backing out.

“Where?” he asked, already slipping on gloves.

I reached for the neckline of my sheer dress and parted it slowly, just enough to reveal the skin between my breasts. “Here,” I said.

Yuri didn’t say a word. But the grin that curved his lips told me he approved. He nodded once. And then he reached for the ink.

The chair was cold beneath me, leather firm and smooth as I settled back against it. Yuri stood in front of me, his shirt open and sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing ink that mapped his skin in stories I hadn’t read yet. He adjusted the lamp above us, shadows flickering across his face as he moved with a quiet kind of precision.

I watched him open the drawer and take out everything he needed. Bottled ink, needles still sealed in sterile plastic, gloves, antiseptic wipes, paper towels, a small machine with a long black cord. Everything was clean, arranged with care. Methodical. Like a ritual.

He looked at me, then at the center of my chest where the fabric of my dress clung to the curves of my breasts. “You shouldlie down,” he said, voice softer now, like we were about to share a secret.

My pulse flicked.

I stood and moved to the long padded table he gestured to, covered in black leather. I laid down slowly, heart rattling behind my ribs. He leaned over, brushing the hair away from my face, tying it up again to keep it from falling.