He orders, "Take your position, Valentina. Brax, sit in the chair."
"What's going on?" I ask her.
She forces a smile. "You're moving up a level. Your skull gets its color. It's fine. Go sit down."
It sounds innocent, but I know nothing in the Underworld is as it seems. So I blurt out, "And you?"
She lifts her head. Her voice sounds brave. "I get color, too. Sit, Brax." She steps next to the bigger table and lies down on it.
It hits me.
"You're coloring her mark? That's going to be excruciatingly painful for her!"
"Brax, it's fine. Sit down. Please," she begs again.
The war inside me rages hard.
"Don't cause any trouble," she pleads.
I sit. Not because I want to but because I'm afraid of what they may do to her if I don't.
The tattoo artist snaps on gloves. He grabs my hand and positions it, stating, "Keep it still." The machine buzzes to life and red ink stamps the skull.
Pain ripples through my arm. I grit my teeth, used to the feeling since it's not my first tattoo. But then I pin my gaze on Valentina.
She lies on the steel table, gripping the edges so hard her knuckles turn white. Her breathing quickens, and she cringes under her eye mask, while scarlet ink gets stained over the V.
"Let her go," I growl, trying to stand.
Hands shove me back down. A masked man warns, "Don't move again." A knife slides next to my neck. Another man holds one next to hers.
Shit.
The entire time they shade my skull, I watch the needle color her knotted skin.
They strip every layer of her open, ink burning into the most intimate part of her body while she lies there, exposed to hundreds of masked strangers. Her entire body stays rigid, her fingers clamped on the edge of the table. She bites her lip so hard she draws blood. Silent tears slide down her temples into her hairline.
When they finish mine, I'm told not to move out of my seat.
Hours pass. Red ink slowly blooms across her body, filling every curve, every hollow, until the scarlet color is bright, violent, and public for all to see.
The chanting never stops, intensifying at times and slowing at others.
Valentina endures every second of pain, never uttering a sound.
My vision tunnels. My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my gums. Raw fury claws up my throat. By the time the machines go quiet, I'm drenched in sweat, chest heaving.
Her tattoo artist puts his needle down. The man who held the knife to her throat pulls her into a sitting position, then helps her off the table.
She tries to stand, but her legs buckle.
I surge forward, catching her before she hits the floor.
Her head drops against my shoulder, breath trembling. "Don't…say anything."
I clench my jaw and wrap an arm around her waist, shielding as much of her bare skin as I can.
"Step back, Brax!" the black robe man orders.
