I beam up at him, something warm unfurling in my chest. "Really?"
He nods, then turns to Sage with an expression that's almost gentle. "Be careful with my girl. She's more delicate than she looks."
I blush—actually blush, heat flooding my cheeks like I'm some inexperienced teenager and not a grown woman who's had tattoos before. "I can handle it," I protest, putting on my best pout. "I have a high pain tolerance."
Tank smirks, that infuriating, knowing expression that suggests he doesn't believe me for a second. "We'll see, Sweetness. We'll see."
? ? ?
~TANK~
"I'm going to die!"
I chuckle, unable to help myself. Rosemarie is sprawled across the pink leather tattoo table—Sage's personal aesthetic choice, apparently—clutching a matching pink stress ball like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to this mortal realm. Her face is scrunched in dramatic agony, her entire body tensedespite the fact that she's barely ten minutes into what is objectively a small tattoo.
So much for that high pain tolerance.
My own artist—a burly Beta named Marcus who clearly appreciates clients who sit still and don't complain—finishes the final touches on my piece, layering protective cream over the fresh ink before stepping back to admire his work.
"All done, man. Take a look before I wrap it."
I glance at my inner wrist, where the three hearts and butterfly now live permanently on my skin. It's smaller than most of my other pieces—delicate, almost, compared to the bold traditional work covering my arms—but it fits. It means something. It meansher.
"Looks good," I confirm, and then I'm up and crossing the small space to Rosemarie's table, where she's currently making sounds that suggest imminent death.
"I'm going todie," she repeats, her voice muffled against the headrest. "This is how it ends. Death by needle. Put that on my tombstone."
"You have multiple tattoos already," I point out, settling into a crouch beside her table so I can see her face. "How is this worse?"
"Those weredifferent." She squeezes the stress ball so hard I'm surprised it doesn't burst. "Those were powered by righteous anger and the need to rebel. This is powered by... by..."
"Love?" Sage suggests mildly, not looking up from her work.
Rosemarie makes a strangled sound that might be agreement or might be another death rattle. It's hard to tell.
I reach out and take her free hand, the one not currently murdering the stress ball. Her fingers are cold and trembling slightly, but they close around mine immediately, grip tight enough to leave marks.
"Hey." I keep my voice low, soothing. "Almost done. You're doing great."
"No," she whimpers. "I'm dying. There's a difference."
Dramatic little thing. So brave about everything else—bounty hunters and threatening messages and running from her entire life—but put a tattoo needle to her wrist and she turns into a puddle of melodrama.
It's adorable. I'm not going to tell her that, because she'd probably bite me, but it is.
"Five more minutes," Sage announces. "Maybe less. Just the shading left."
Rosemarie whimpers again, and I make a decision.
I lean in close, letting my lips brush against her ear. Her scent fills my lungs—cinnamon and coffee and vanilla, sharp with stress but still intoxicating. "Why don't I reward you afterward," I murmur, "if you're a good girl for five minutes?"
Her eyes fly open, meeting mine. The pain is still there, but there's something else now too—interest, heat, that spark of challenge that I've come to associate with her. "What kind of reward?"
"The kind that makes the pain worth it."
She considers this for a moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then she huffs out a breath and nods. "Fine. Five minutes. But it better be areally goodreward."
"Wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Sweetness."
