Page 22

“I don’t have time for this.” I spring forward, away from Kade’s hand, and make a beeline for the door.

Saint follows me into the hall, and I laugh to myself at the stupidity of it all. Kade being in my condo. Saint tattooing him. Reese being— I don’t know. Fucking Reese. Good or bad, he’s unexpectedly kind.

“Honestly, Saint,” I call over my shoulder. “I don’t think I can do any more betrayal from you.”

I can’t. I thought he would stand with me in this. Didn’t he see me in the hospital? Didn’t he help rescue me from Gabriel’s fucked-up game?

“Tem.”

“Don’t call me that.” I hit the button for the elevator. Jab my finger onto it again when it doesn’t immediately light up, then again a few more times. “Why’d you even follow me out here?”

He sighs.

“Don’t sigh at me,” I snap.

“You burned down Kade’s house.” He stops beside me. “You’re acting erratically.”

“Maybe I’m just traumatized.” I glare at him.

It’s true, though. Maybe I am traumatized.

By betrayal and lies and backstabbing. It’s a lot for a girl to go through on her own.

I’m totally on my own, aren’t I? Saint and Reese and Kade are only just visitors in my life.

My brother is out of town. Antonio… I can’t go to him.

I’m alone. I’d be more alone if Saint stopped chasing me.

The elevator chimes, and I step in before the doors have fully opened. Saint follows. His hands are in his pockets, his expression stricken.

Ha .

“Why did you follow me?”

The doors slide closed.

“Because I care.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” I mutter.

He shakes his head. “You just don’t want to see that I’m trying to keep everything together. All the time.”

“Oh?” I face him. “What are you trying to keep together? Me? You?”

“Yes,” he hisses. “Yes, Artemis, you . And the tattoo shop. And my own fucking traitorous brain.”

“Because of Kade,” I surmise.

He reels back. “Excuse me?”

“You’re dealing with your own form of betrayal from him?—”

“No.” He comes closer. “No, damn it. My brain is telling me to stay true to Elora. I loved her. I can only ever love her. And this fucking attraction to you is overwhelming and endless . Do you think I want to want you? Do you think craving you is easy ?”

My jaw drops, but no words come out.

“It’s not,” he whispers. His hand slides around my neck, to my nape. His nails dig into my skin, and he drags me toward him. “It’s the worst torture I’ve endured.”

His lips slam into mine.

I gasp into his mouth, my brain still caught between craving and torture. It fast forwards to our parting lips, the chase of his tongue in my mouth. It’s furious and sweet at the same time.

I press up on my toes, clutching at his shirt. All I can hear is the rushing of my blood in my ears. The headache, the bone-deep ache, it all becomes secondary to this kiss.

He’s kissing me.

I’m kissing him back.

Knowing he feels just as guilty as me soothes some of the knots in my stomach. My fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans, and I yank him closer. He groans into my mouth. I almost draw back, but his fingers tense against my nape. Keeping me with him.

This is happening?

We’ve fucked. Fucking, in retrospect, had practically no intimacy.

And this is the complete opposite. It’s just a kiss , and I may as well be standing in front of him with my soul cupped in my hands.

Letting him examine it.

The elevator doors slide open, but I can’t stop.

He doesn’t either. I angle my head and suck his tongue into my mouth. My heart pounds. He tastes like watermelon.

The doors close.

He chuckles into my mouth. We’re swept upward, and I finally push back against his chest just as it stops at a new floor.

We separate, me stuck to my wall and Saint stepping back to press his spine to the other. His eyes are wide, his cheeks flushed. I’m sure I look no better, but the couple that enters don’t seem to notice. They hit the button for the lobby.

I carefully run my fingers through my hair. It’s still quite damp, and every tug through it spikes pain along my scalp.

You know what would fix it?

A drug that I’m not going to think about.

The elevator chimes. Saint and I follow the couple out into the lobby, but I pause. I don’t actually have a plan for where to go or what to do. If I was alone…

“Come on,” Saint murmurs.

We walk in silence. My joints hurt, but I push it aside for the peace between us. It’s too rare, and I find myself hesitant to open my mouth.

What if I ruin it?

I could easily say something snappy, and he would retort with a patronizing comment. It would dissolve into an argument, and the peace would vanish like it was never here in the first place.

By our third turn, I know where we’re going.

Starlight.

My chest tightens, but I don’t say anything until we’re standing in front of the tattoo shop. He unlocks the door and ushers me in, and I glare at him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He flicks on the lights and gestures to his tattoo chair.

“Another trick?”

“I’m righting a wrong.”

A lump forms in my throat. He goes to the counter and starts prepping a tray of supplies while I fidget.

“Take your shirt off,” he says without turning around.

A chill sweeps down my spine.

I’m not wearing a bra. Something Kade seemed to have forgotten when he gathered clothes for me… or maybe he just didn’t want to dig around my top drawer?

How kind of him.

The last time Saint saw me shirtless, he couldn’t take his gaze off my nipples.

So…

Fuck it. I lock the front door, then yank the privacy curtain. Saint glances over his shoulder just as I’m pulling off my shirt and sweatshirt in one go, and predictably, his gaze drops to my chest.

My nipples pebble in the cool air.

“Artemis,” he groans. “What are you doing?”

“You told me to take my shirt off,” I say as innocently as I can.

He tilts his head. “Do you trust me?”

“Is that a requirement?”

“No.” He takes a seat. “I was going to do your shoulder, but… I’ll do wherever you want.”

I consider that. My sweatshirt and shirt are in my arms, covering my stomach—and more importantly, my arms. God forbid Saint notice the bruised veins in the crooks of my elbows.

Nothing would kill this mood quite like that.

Where do I want a tattoo?

Wordlessly, I tap my collarbone.

He nods and points to a spot in front of him.

Damn. My knees shake on my way over. I’m feeling a bit vulnerable like this. Who wouldn’t? I hug my clothes tighter, tempted to cover my breasts, but they’ve got Saint enraptured.

When I come to a halt within arm’s reach, he inches forward even further. He presses on a spot on my collarbone, then sweeps his finger outward.

Goosebumps rise on my skin.

“Stay still.” He grabs a marker and returns.

He flicks the cap off and braces his other hand on my shoulder.

Right before he makes contact, though, he pauses.

When he looks up, his face is only inches from mine.

His eyes, this close, are too blue. Wide with earnest. “I’m not going to blindfold you, but I’d like you to not see until I’m done drawing. ”

I swallow, then slowly nod.

He nods back. His head dips, his concentration focused on my skin.

His canvas.

The marker’s tip scratches against my skin. I sway, and he places my hand on his hip. Another stabilizing point. It keeps me upright, which is all he probably needs. The marker, after a few minutes, hurts like a tattoo.

I keep my gaze fixed on where the wall meets the ceiling in front of me.

He hums under his breath. At one point, he switches to a finer-tipped pen. I still don’t peek. I concentrate on the burning scratches, my body aching. The pain has traveled from my scalp down my spine, settling in my hips. I fight the urge to shift my weight.

Finally, he caps the pen and takes a step back.

“You can look,” he says in a low voice. He directs me to a mirror hung on the wall. “Tell me if you hate it.”

I shoot him a look. I’ve seen his work. Through countless hours sitting on the white couch in the front of his shop, taking my work here just because I was terrified he would slip out and kill himself when I wasn’t watching.

The way he acted right after Nyx died was a scary time. He held it together for everyone else, but I saw through it. I hurt right along with him, but that solidarity wasn’t enough.

I don’t know if he even felt it.

I was more of a planted watchdog than a friend.

But that need to make sure he stayed safe slowly faded when he didn’t act out. It was impossible to tell if he was just pretending or if he really didn’t mean it when he told Jace he wanted to die.

Or when he ran into the ocean and had to be dragged out.

Too many examples for comfort spring to mind. He went through a phase of running himself ragged, which he said was just to be exhaust his body enough to sleep.

But he didn’t stop tattooing. If anything, he took more clients. He wanted to be here all the time—and I get that. It’s the best sort of distraction for his brain and his body.

All that is to say, he only grew better. Magazines came to interview him. Famous people, even NHL players, traveled to Sterling Falls to see him. His work was worth it. Is worth it.

He did that all with a broken heart.

I step up to the mirror, analyzing myself first. Hair: curling and a bit frizzy. Dark circles under my eyes. The wounds I suffered at the hands of Gabriel—the stabbing and subsequent heroin-induced coma—made me lose too much weight.

I feel similar to how I felt emerging from Terror. Hollow.

But my gaze finally drops to my collarbone, and my breath sticks in my chest.

Through the layers of marker, from a light blue to a darker purple, I make out the scales of justice exploding with wildflowers. It’s about the size of my palm, and some of the flowers extend down toward my breast, and others up to the ball of my shoulder.

My eyes burn.

I blink rapidly, but I can’t really make sense of it.

“What does it mean?”

He steps up behind me. “I think you’ll figure it out… if you want it. Should I change anything?”

“I want it exactly as it is,” I say immediately.

“Okay.”

I turn away from the mirror and take a seat. I hold the sweatshirt over my breasts, but after a long moment, slowly lower them.

He groans through his teeth. “You want to make this difficult?”

“You could’ve picked something easier,” I answer. “My thigh.”

“Seeing your thigh would not have been any easier.”

I smirk.

He takes a seat and rolls the stool closer. He adjusts my chair to a better angle, tilting it back so I’m reclined.

With one gloved finger, he traces the hoop in my nipple.

I almost fly out of the chair.

It’s his turn to smirk, but it fades fast. “Tell me about Terror.”

Oh.

My mouth dries. “Why?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Because I should understand, and I don’t.”

“No one should understand.”

“Gabriel does.” He’s not even facing at me anymore. Black ink in the little wells, a few different needle sizes.

My palms sweat.

“Gabriel does,” I agree. “He had a different experience, but… yeah.”

“So?” he questions. “Please, Tem.”

Oh, there he goes, using the name only friends call me. I wouldn’t say we’re that—but he did admit to craving me, didn’t he?

The tattoo machine in his hand comes alive with a sudden buzz, and he picks up ink from the well. He scoots closer. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” My voice is hoarse.

He touches my skin with his left hand, steadying me, and I try to relax for the first prick of the needle.

It hurts more and less than I thought it would.

I know that makes no sense, but…

It’s all I can focus on. And it’s by choice, so it makes it better.

After the first line, the first taste of this kind of pain… maybe I have an addictive personality. Maybe Gabriel knew, and now Saint will, too. Because I’m not sure how one tattoo will be enough.

The only way to keep myself sane is through punishment. And that’s why I start talking.