Captured - Cara Wylde Page 0,24

when I noticed she was studying my tattoos, trying to read the quote I had written on the inside of my left arm.

“Great things are done when men and mountains meet,” I said.

“William Blake.”

“So you’re a poetry fan.”

“Private schools,” she chuckled. “One can’t be a Bishop and not know one’s British poetry. My ancestors immigrated from Britain in the 1700s, and from mother to daughter and father to son, my family made sure that we didn’t forsake our roots.”

I nodded.

“Can I see your tattoos?”

I blinked. What was I supposed to say to that?

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” she blushed cutely. “My parents didn’t let me, and if I went and got one in secret, they would’ve eventually found out.”

“What the hell…” I mumbled under my breath as I moved closer to her and started removing my shirt. I undid the buttons one by one, never taking my eyes off her face. She was staring at my chest like she hadn’t seen a half-naked man before. “Enjoying the view?”

“Sorry.” She gulped and looked away.

“Take a picture and all that.” My shirt was off, so I extended my arms toward her, flexing so she could better see the ink. “Trees. That’s Poe’s raven there,” I explained the sleeve on my entire right arm. “Blake’s quote was a bitch to ink.” It was the only tat on my left arm. “I wanted pretty small lettering. The Beta who did all my tats said I was insane.”

“Why’s that?”

“With details as fine as these,” I pointed at the flowy letters, “there’s a good chance the ink won’t catch. The skin rejects it automatically, so it’s harder.”

“Why would the skin…”

“Oh.” I laughed. “Of course. How would you know?” I turned my back toward her so she could see the impressive art that started below the nape of my neck and ran down to the hem of my old, battered jeans. “Do you recognize this?”

“The Face of War,” she whispered. “Dali’s painting.”

“You know your art.”

“Private…”

“… schools. Yes. Got it.”

The most unexpected thing happened. I felt Isabel’s fingers slowly trace the edges of my tattoo, moving in inch by inch, until she was running the tips along my spine. I suppressed a shudder. My cock hardened, and I had to adjust my position on the floor. Her fingers were trembling slightly, as if she were afraid that she might do something that wasn’t allowed. I tried to relax my shoulders. Not in a million years was I going to tell her that a simple touch from her part turned me on so hard that I could barely form coherent thoughts anymore. What was happening to me? It wasn’t like I hadn’t had action almost every night. Sure, the females I fucked weren’t my soul mates or anything, but they were good in bed. And because they were she-wolves, they didn’t get tired. We could fuck all night long, and then some more. I’d just screwed Gabby’s brains out three nights before. So, why was my cock pulsating in my pants like it hadn’t been inside a pussy for months?

“It’s beautiful.”

“It was pure torture to get it.”

“I don’t understand.” She was still caressing my back. “I thought werewolves healed faster than humans? Didn’t feel as much pain? I don’t know… Maybe I read too many fantasy novels.”

“You’re right. We’re stronger than humans in every way you can think of. That’s why our skin rejects the ink. We heal so fast that when the needle pushes the ink in, the scars close almost instantly. It might be easy for your kind to get tattoos, but not for mine.”

“I’m sorry…” Her hand dropped in her lap, and I turned to face her. “If that’s the case, then why was it torture?”

“For the ink to get imprinted in the skin, we have to mix it with wolfsbane. It’s the only plant we have a mild allergy to. Mild, don’t forget.” I pointed my finger at her. “Don’t get any stupid ideas, you can’t poison us with it.”

“I wouldn’t…” The tone of her voice didn’t convince me.

“Getting a tattoo with ink mixed with wolfsbane is painful. More painful than you could ever imagine.” I put my shirt back on, taking my time buttoning it up. Just as I’d thought, her blue eyes followed my movements. “Nothing I can’t take, though.”

“Wow. But why would you put yourself through that? I mean, they’re beautiful…”

I huffed, annoyed. “If you don’t understand the concept of art for art’s sake, then you went to your private schools for