Page 25 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rumor has it, he's about to make the most permanent deal of his life.

Maverick

Jin’s voice still echoes in my head when I kill the call.

“She cashed in your favor.”

No preamble. No apology. Just those words, blunt and cold and final.

I should’ve seen it coming. Ainsley’s been running quiet for days, hiding behind laughter and those soft eyes that go glassy whenever I try to dig deeper. But walking into Jin’s space and throwing my name around like a weapon? That’s a new level of audacity, even for her.

I stare down at the IOU card on the passenger seat, the ink still feeling fresh. No names. No terms. Just the weight of what it means. It’s how I operate with quiet power and unspoken rules. You don’t speak my name. You don’t spend what isn’t yours. And when I come to collect, you don’t hesitate.

And yet, she did all three.

She walked into Jin’s lab, used my reputation like currency, and leveraged a hacker with a rap sheet longer than my medical file. She used fear and my favor to get what she wanted. And the worst part? I’m not even mad.

I’m rock-fucking-hard.

Watching her command my world like it’s hers isn’t betrayal. It’s foreplay. But the lies, the silence? That’s what’s unforgivable. She didn’t come to me. She went behind my back instead.

And now I’m going to remind her exactly whose name she used and what it costs to use it.

My heart rate monitor pings. 142.

I lean back in the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the entrance to the marine science building.

Students pour out in loose clusters, laughing and stretching and checking their phones like they don’t know how fragile normal is.

Like their world doesn’t run on IOUs and silence and power leveraged in dark corners.

Then I see her.

Ainsley. Backpack slung over one shoulder, phone pressed to her ear, animated like she’s narrating a documentary no one asked for.

The sun catches in her brown hair, making her look like she belongs to some other world—one where nothing is broken, where girls don’t lie, where boys like me don’t need backup plans written in blood.

She looks normal, which makes it worse. Because I know better. I know what she did yesterday. I know what she’s hiding. And today, she’s going to learn what it means to wear my name for real.

I tap the horn once, sharp, just enough to turn heads. She flinches, scans the lot, then sees me. That’s when it hits—her face shifting in real time. Surprise. Recognition. Relief. And finally, wariness.

Good. She should be scared.

She mutters something into the phone, hangs up, and walks toward me with deliberate steps. Not slow, not fast, just careful, like she’s walking into something that might detonate.

She opens the passenger door and tosses her bag into the back. Her eyes catch the card on the seat, and she pauses briefly —a barely there furrow between her brows. Then she covers it with a smile.

“Thought you were working.” She says it like this is just another Tuesday.

I don’t answer that. Just shift into drive. “Plans changed.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

She studies me, and I can feel it—the way her gaze traces my jaw, the twitch in my fingers, the unspoken charge in the air. She’s cataloging the tension, trying to find a way in.

“What’s the card for?” She nods toward the IOU.

I glance at it, then at the road. “That’s part of the surprise.”

“Maverick.” Her voice sharpens, the edge she only uses when she knows she’s not in control. “What’s going on?”

I take a left, then another. Not toward home. Not toward campus. Toward the ink. She notices—of course, she does, she always does—but this time, she doesn’t speak. She just folds her hands in her lap and waits.

Good. Let her sweat. Let her try to guess what happens next.

She doesn’t move when we pull into the lot, just stares at the sign: Blackout Ink . The O flickers like it’s dying—the kind of place that doesn’t take IDs, just cash and conviction. A place for impulsive mistakes and irreversible choices.

Fitting.

She finally speaks, voice tight. “Why are we here?”

I tap the IOU card with two fingers. “To make it permanent.”

Her head turns slowly. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Because you went behind my back. Because you thought you were above the rules.

Because you played in my world without understanding how deep the water runs.

Because I can’t get the image out of my head of you marching into Jin’s lab and bending him to your will with nothing but my name and your mouth.

Because if you’re going to carry my reputation like a weapon, you’re going to carry the weight of it, too.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I meet her eyes. “You spent my power. Now, you wear it.”

She stares at me long enough that I can see it happening behind her eyes—every wall going up, then cracking. She’s doing the math, weighing the humiliation against the high, the sting of betrayal against the slow-burn thrill of being claimed.

“Where?”

The word hits harder than I expect. I didn’t think she’d ask, didn’t think she’d bend so soon. Part of me wanted her to fight, to rage, to push back so I’d have an excuse to break. But this? This is something else.

I nod to the glove box. “There’s a marker.”

She opens it without a word and pulls out the Sharpie I always keep tucked next to my spare cards.

For contracts. For IOUs. For moments just like this.

She doesn’t even hesitate—just rolls up the sleeve of her hoodie and holds out her wrist. The inside.

Pale. Soft. Honest. The same wrist she wraps around her coffee when she’s cold, the same one she presses to her mouth when she’s trying not to laugh.

And she gives it to me like it’s mine. Because it is.

She uncaps the marker. The smell of ink punches through the car’s stale heat. Then, with the kind of focus she usually saves for marine biology rants and flashcards, she starts to write. I.O.U. Each letter shaky but deliberate. Each stroke binding.

My eyes track every movement like they’re tethered to her fingers. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. When she’s done, she doesn’t look up—just holds out her wrist. The letters stare back at me, black and bold against her skin.

“Here,” she says softly, like an offering.

And something in my chest twists, sharp and deep—the kind of pain you get when you realize you’ve already fallen, and the ground hasn’t even given out yet.

I take her wrist in my hand and brush my thumb across the fresh ink. It smudges slightly, which makes me smile. Because the real thing won’t. The real thing will scar.

“You sure?” Though I don’t plan on taking no for an answer.

She nods. Not brave. Not reckless. Resolved. And maybe that’s worse.

I drop her hand and kill the engine. “Let’s go.”

The bell over the door chimes as we walk in. It’s quiet inside—dim lighting, smells like antiseptic and steel and ink, sterile and intimate in a way that feels almost surgical.

The guy behind the counter looks up. Buzzcut. Neck tats. Piercings that glint in the glow of his desk lamp.

“You walk-ins?” He flips his clipboard shut.

“Yeah.” I step forward. “Two pieces. Text only. Small. No art, no shading.”

He nods. “Names?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I drop three hundred-dollar bills on the counter. He eyes it, then us, then shrugs. “Pick a station. I’ll set up.”

We move to the corner booth tucked into a semi-private nook with a long mirror and worn black leather chairs. There’s a tray beside it covered in shrink-wrapped instruments and tiny plastic cups of black ink.

Ainsley doesn’t sit. She just stands there like she’s waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t.

“You ready?”

She hesitates, then nods and sits. I take the seat beside her, close enough to smell her shampoo, to feel the heat rolling off her skin.

The artist gloves up. “Who’s first?”

“She is.”

She glances at me—not scared, just wide-eyed and curious, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I take her wrist and hold it out to the artist. “This. Exactly.”

He nods and starts copying the design onto tracing paper. While he works, I reach for her hand. She gives it to me without protest. It’s soft and shaking, and fuck, it fits perfectly in my mine.

The stencil goes on, cold and wet. She shivers, but I don’t let go.

“Keep holding her,” the artist says. “Most girls flinch.”

“She won’t.”

She looks at me like I’ve just dared her to prove me right. Good.

The gun buzzes to life—loud, mechanical, hungry. She tenses but doesn’t pull away. I lean closer, my voice low and steady. “Breathe.”

She does. Barely. Then the needle touches her skin.

She flinches—just a tiny twitch—but I tighten my grip on her hand, and she stills. I watch every line form, every curve of the I, the smooth pull of the O, the sharp finality of the U. Each stroke burns into her like a vow I never asked her to make, but she’s making it anyway.

And the whole time, her eyes are on me. Not the needle. Not the artist. Me. Like I’m the only thing anchoring her in the room.

When it’s done, the artist wipes away the excess ink. The IOU gleams, raw and perfect, right over her pulse. Mine. Every inch of it.

“Your turn,” he says.

I stand, tug my shirt over my head, and toss it onto the chair. Ainsley inhales sharply. Her eyes drop to my chest, to the spot I’m already pointing to—left side, over my heart.

The artist raises an eyebrow. “Same word?”

I nod. “Her handwriting.”

He copies it quickly—her careful, feminine scrawl. She watches the whole thing in silence.

The moment the needle hits my skin, I lock eyes with her. It stings, but I don’t flinch. Pain is familiar. So is permanence. But this? Having her script etched onto my chest? That’s something new. That’s submission—voluntary, permanent.

And the way she looks at me while it happens? Like she knows. Like she’s never seen anything so intimate in her life.

When it’s finished, I don’t reach for my shirt. I don’t bandage it yet. I just stand and look at her, at the ink, at the mark I made and the one she gave me.

And then I move.

Outside, I open her car door, but instead of letting her get in, I press her back against the side of the car. My hands cage her in, braced on either side of her head. The metal’s warm beneath her, but I’m warmer. My bare chest brushes her hoodie. My eyes stay locked on hers.

“No more lies,” I say, voice low, barely audible.

Her breath catches.

“No more sneaking behind my back. No more collecting favors in my name.”

Her chin tips up—defiant, breathless.

“And if I do?” she whispers.

I lean in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “You won’t.”

She swallows hard.

“You used my power,” I murmur, lips ghosting along her jaw, “and you made it yours.”

I trail one hand down and brush my thumb over the new tattoo on her wrist.

“You don’t get to walk away from that.”

Her whole body trembles.

“You think this is punishment?” I drag my eyes down her throat. “This is foreplay.”

“Maverick,” she whispers, already breathless.

I back up half an inch, just enough to look down at her, bare chest to her hoodie.

“You’re part of this now. Part of me.”

She nods.

“Say it.”

“I’m part of you.”

“Good girl.”

I open the door for her. She slides inside, hand hovering over her fresh ink. When I sit beside her, I finally check my watch.

156 BPM.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like a warning. It feels like ownership.

And she wears it well.