I narrow my eyes. Nothing in this house is green, and I’ve never seen Harrison wear anything green. Not that I’ve known him that long, but…
“If it’s your favorite color, you’ve certainly gone out of your way to avoid it.”
He purses his lips. “Guess we’d better get on with the branding.”
I seem to have struck a tiny nerve. I didn’t mean to offend Harrison. I suppose I still don’t know much about him. We’ve only known each other for a few days, after all.
Harrison’s fireplace is at the side of his living room, framed by dark-gray stones along with a rack of firewood and a wrought iron stand holding a poker, tongs, and a small shovel. He places a few logs in the fire and then rips up some old newspaper for kindling before tossing a lit match in. The logs light quickly after that, and smoke drifts toward the chimney.
I place the branding irons over the flames. “These’ll take a few minutes to warm up. Do you have any alcohol wipes? You’ll want to sterilize both your shoulders before we do this.”
He nods and takes his shirt off.
I’ve seen his chest before, but that in no way diminishes the awe it inspires. The man could be a statue by Michelangelo. That’s how perfect he is.
Such a shame to mar that perfect body with these brands.
But I don’t see any other choice.
A few minutes later he reenters the living room, his shoulders gleaming from being wiped down. I remove a pocket-sized bottle of hand sanitizer from my purse and use it myself. I then check the irons. They’re getting red.
“Moment of truth,” I say.
He nods, his eyes vacant. “Right.”
“You’ll…probably want something to bite down on. It’s going to be painful.”
“Makes sense.” He removes his belt, folds it in half, and places it in his mouth.
“Any preference for which shoulder we do first?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Okay.” I look at the brands. The Ace brand is a brighter red than the Club because the letter A has a lot less surface area to heat up. “We’ll do your right first then.”
He nods, presenting his right shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut.
I remove the brand and steady myself, making sure my knees are slightly bent and that my stance is shoulder width. I don’t get a second shot at this. I have to knock it out of the park on my first try. Twice.
I will my hands not to tremble as I position the branding iron in place. “On the count of three, then. One…two…three!”
With just the right amount of force, I push the iron A onto his right shoulder.
The sound of searing flesh hisses into my ears, followed quickly by an acrid and coppery smell as his skin burns. Harrison lets out a groan of pain, but he doesn’t collapse to the floor like I’ve heard a lot of Aces waitresses do. He stands in place, remaining stoic.
I put the brand down on the tiles in front of the fireplace and rush to my purse, pulling out a small blood-red bottle. I uncork it, place a quarter-sized amount of creamy ointment into my hand, and cross back to Harrison. “This is Rouge’s special tonic. It’ll provide relief from the pain and will help the burn to heal cleanly. It should also reduce swelling and the reddening of the skin surrounding it.”
Harrison spits the belt out. “For God’s sake, please use it.”
I apply the ointment to the brand. At first Harrison winces from the sting, but then the muscles in his face relax. The stuff works quick. I have no idea what Rouge puts in it, but she usually has people on the Aces floor within twenty-four hours of their branding without any infections or anything.
God, my sister could really do some good in the world with her tremendous intelligence if she wasn’t pure fucking evil.
Harrison’s breathing is slowing now, and the skin around the brand is returning to its original shade. I take a deep breath in. “Do you want to do the next one?”
He runs his left hand through his hair. “Fuck. I forgot there were two of them.”
“I’m sorry.” I grab the Club brand. “But now you know that Rouge’s tonic will help you immediately.”
