While I wander the space, Knight acts as my silent shadow, never more than a few paces behind me, his body tense and constantly on alert. Instead of being frustrated, I find his presence reassuring. I like knowing he’s close, that he’s there for me and only me.
Leaving the break room, I push up onto my tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his lips as I pass him and head back toward my chair.
“Should I bring your things to one of the private rooms?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “My chair is next to Betty’s.”
“It would be safer to be in a private space,” he tells me coolly.
“It’s hardly dangerous out here,” I scoff, flopping down onto the leather chair on wheels that’s positioned at my station beside the tattoo bed.
“I would prefer?—”
I cut him off. “I’m working out here, Knight. I need the noise, the atmosphere, and the people to feed off. I hate working in a private room.”
I can see he wants to protest, but I’m glad when he doesn’t. It’s been months since I tattooed anyone, and I need to be part of the shop to bask in the lifestyle, the clients, and the art. I can’t do that isolated in a back room on my own. I’d be miserable.
“Stay here. I’ll go and fetch your boxes,” he says stiffly.
“I can help,” I start to say, pushing out of the seat.
“No,” he snaps, turning and striding toward the front door.
The entire front of the studio is made of glass, so I watch as he marches outside, opens the trunk of his car, then lifts two of my large boxes at one time, carrying them back inside and placing them at my feet.
While he returns for the remaining two, I open my work cabinet and find it empty. Jumping out of my seat, I head for the breakroom, open the storage room, and fill my arms with the basic supplies I need to set up my area.
“Octavia.”
At the sound of my voice being roared, I dump the stuff in my arms onto the kitchen counter and rush back into the studio, expecting to find Knight hurt, or being held at knifepoint, or something. Instead, my new husband is running from room to room, throwing doors open dramatically, his eyes wild, his chest heaving.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“Where the hell were you?” he yells, storming toward me, lifting me off my feet and pinning me to his chest.
“I was getting supplies,” I try to say with my face squashed against his shirt.
“You do not disappear like that ever again,” he growls angrily, but his body doesn’t feel angry. He’s holding me tightly, but he’s not tense. He’s clinging to me, his hold desperate, his heart racing beneath me.
“I was just in the break room,” I tell him, not really able to move.
After a long moment, he slowly relaxes his hold, allowing me to slide down his body until my feet hit the floor.
“I didn’t leave you,” I assure him, wrapping my arms around his back to hug him.
“I know,” he replies, but his voice is robotic and cold.
I don’t understand his reaction, but it doesn’t really matter why he’s feeling this way. I just want to make it better. “Will you help me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers gruffly.
Slowly unwrapping my arms from around him, I take his hand and lead him into the break room. Collecting all the things I abandoned when he yelled, I load them into his arms, then motion him to follow as I go back into the supply room and gather the other essential items I need to set up my station.
Once his arms are loaded with things, I stay close to him as we make our way back to the stage.
“You can put all of that on the bed. I need to clean the cabinet before I can start stocking it.”
Placing everything down on the bed, he looms over me, his arms crossed over his chest like a guard, protecting his ward. Trying to ignore his tension, I open the pack of cleansing wipes and clean down everything before I systematically start to fill my cabinet.
