“The scars are...” He goes still in that odd way of his, looking away. “They remind us of a mistake. There’s no making them into something pretty. But maybe in ten years, you’ll look at this tattoo, and you won’t even remember all this stupid Devil stuff. You’ll just remember why you did it. The people you did it for.” When he meets my gaze again, there’s something heavy and significant in his eyes. “If you think of it like that, it’s not a such a scary thing to immortalize, right?”
I chew on my lip as I try to see it from that angle. Can I do that? Can I make this tattoo less about being bribed by some shadowy cabal, and more about the reason I did it? The more I think about it, the more it grows on me. I don’t want to be forcibly branded like a piece of cattle. But the memory of being able to protect Emory for once, of feeling passionate about something—about justice and truth—for the first time in my life, of doing all this with Reyn at my side, becoming two people who are more than just the product of a terrible accident?
Suddenly, I need this damn tattoo.
I cut my eyes at Reyn. “Oh, you’re good.”
A slow smile dimples his cheeks. “Am I?” His eyes drop. It’s only for a split second. If I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I probably would have missed it, the way his gaze locks on the bare skin just below my skirt hem. I watch his gaze flick away just as fast, and now I’m flooded with all kinds of memories of him doing that. At the party, when I first closed myself in that room. In the bunker, when he asked me to wear jeans. That time in the driveway, the moment that started all this, when he accused me of eavesdropping.
Reynolds McAllister has been looking at my thighs.
Before I can formulate a response, a skinny guy walks out from a back room, arms covered in tattoos, a series of earrings glinting off the shell of his ear. “I’m finishing up with my other client,” he says, “but if one of you wants to wait in the other room, I’ll be with you shortly.”
“I’m ready,” I blurt, walking in the direction of the room. I enter the small space, the walls covered in a mix of colorful and black and white art. In the middle of the room, there’s a long chair-slash-table convertible combo, a lot like the deck chairs at the pool, except this one is padded and sturdy. Next to it stands a stainless-steel table filled with supplies. My eyes linger on the containers of ink, the small squeeze bottle of water, and the clean cloths. The nervous flutter sparks in my belly again, but it’s a different kind of anticipation than it had been before. When I turn around, Reyn is in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded over his chest. He looks tired, but there’s a softness to his eyes as he watches me that I’m not quite used to.
“Where did you decide to put it?” he asks.
“I haven’t,” I admit, taking the temporary tattoo from my bag. “Somewhere bulletproof invisible, that’s for sure.” When I look up from the paper bearing the pitchfork, I catch it again—his eyes rapidly flicking away from my thighs.
“I haven’t decided, either,” he offers.
I rub my thumb over the ink on the paper, mind blooming with an idea. Just thinking about it makes my skin feel a little too hot, but I can hear Afton and Elana in my head, flaunt it. But I’m not someone who flaunts, mercilessly or otherwise, and I’m already certain that I’m about to make a fool out of myself.
“I was thinking,” I begin, backing myself up to the chair. “I could do it here.” I watch him as I lift the side of my shirt, tapping the soft patch of skin over my ribs. His eyes follow the motion. “It’s above my scar, so I already have a whole wardrobe built around hiding it.”
He meets my gaze again. “Looks good.”
“Or…” I scoot myself up, onto the chair, and plant one of my feet in the middle of it. “… I could get it here.” I have no idea how the hell I manage to keep my voice even as I hike up the hem of my skirt