“Hi.”
This was it, and I wasn’t sure how to begin, or end, or even middle.
He raised one brow when I didn’t respond, or maybe it was my panicked expression.
“What did you want to ask me?” he asked, and I blurted out, “I need to ask you something,” at the same time.
He signaled for me to continue, but how did I ask the meaning of matching tattoos? And if I went a step further, I might talk about destiny. But just having that word in my head was ridiculous.
I gulped, picturing the flames curling over Dray’s shoulder and those scales surrounding them.
“Pax, what’s wrong?” He extended his hand as if he was going to grab mine but reversed his decision and pulled it back.
Gods, it was hot in here. Arthur needed to get his hand off the thermostat.
“Mmmm. This is harder than I thought.”
Arthur, who’d removed his sweater, appeared with our coffees and a bag of my food.
I wrapped my hands around the mug, though the last thing I needed was more heat. Dray’s dark eyes were fixed on me, and I squirmed.
“I saw something the other day.” My coffee was my lifeline, and I peered at it, hoping the words I needed to say would appear in the froth.
“Like what?”
“Your tattoo.”
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes grew darker, and I shivered.
“I was in the turret looking at you.” Now I sounded creepy. “You took off your shirt.” That image was burned into my brain. “And I saw your tattoo.”
“Oh.”
That was it? That was all he was going to say? I needed deets. I wiped the sweat from my brow. The café was like a sauna, and I tugged at my sweater, but I didn’t want to take it off in here.
“Can we go outside?”
Dray nodded and told Arthur he’d transfer the money for our coffees and my food. How could the man think of hot drinks at a time like this? But he didn’t know I had a tattoo too, so he had no clue why I wanted to talk about the markings on his body.
I walked to the side of the building away from prying eyes in the café.
“I have the same tattoo.”
“Oh.”
I put both hands over my eyes. I needed Dray to say more than, “Oh.” Perhaps he thought I had a butterfly or a star. That wouldn’t be unusual. But not flames surrounded by greeny-blue scales.
Wrenching the sweater off, followed by my shirt, I revealed my marking. The tattoo scales shimmered in the sunlight, and my internal body temperature increased.
“I never understood why I got this. My memories are blurred, but it’s been eight years.”
His expression was unreadable, but his pupils narrowed. They were so much darker than I recalled. He reached out as if to touch my tattoo, but I stepped to the side. I needed an explanation, though a few days ago, I’d wanted nothing more than for him to put his hands on and in me.
“Dray, say something, please. And not just ‘Oh.’” I tried to control my breathing that had me sounding like an old-fashioned train engine puffing up a steep hill. “Take off your shirt and show me.”
He’s going to refuse. I know he is. That was what I’d do if I were him.
But he tossed aside his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. I focused on each of those buttons, not ‘cause of what lay beneath them but because of what he’d say when he revealed the tattoo.
