Because he already had.
I remember tilting my wrist toward him, just slightly, flashing the fresh ink that still burned across the top of my skin, mirroring one that he got. Something only we knew. Something quiet and eternally promising. His eyes dragged to mine like gravity, his chest rising deep and slow, like he could feel me without needing to touch.
I pictured him falling apart. His mouth on my wrist, my thighs around his neck. My moans in his mouth, my blood on his tongue.
And God, I loved him like this. Feral but restrained. Mine but desperate. Caged by the same hunger he’d once used to undo me.
This was the vow. Therealone.
Not the ceremony. Not the rings. Not the papers with dried ink.
This—a different kind of ink.
The silence.
The claiming of it all.
The first thingI registered was pain, but not the emotional kind for once. And certainly not themy-car-is-designed-to-kill-mekind of pain.
It was hot, sharp, localized. Somewhere low. Somewhere that felt important.
I groaned before I opened my eyes. “Cal…” It was all I could manage.
A grunt from behind me, followed by a deep, hungover sigh. “Why do I feel like I got hit by a tractor?”
I cracked one eye open, instantly regretted it, and dropped my head back against the pillow.
Sunlight bled through the sheer curtains, blinding and rude. The sound of waves feltwaytoo loud for being so far away. And every single inch of my skin was either too hot or too sore.
“I’m sticky,” I croaked.
“I think I’m dead,” Callum muttered. “My soul left my body sometime after the sixth glass of wine and my second orgasm. You married a ghost.”
I giggled, and immediately winced. “Fuck. Ow. Ow.”
“What now?”
“I… don’t know.” I tried to sit up before immediately giving up when pain flared from my hips. My thighs were sore. My brain lagged half a second behind everything else.
“Mon Dieu,” I muttered, blindly reaching under the covers. The panic hit slowly—then all at once. My dress was gone. So were my panties. I was very naked, very tender, and there wasdefinitelysomething tight and plasticky stuck to my skin.
My fingers brushed something that should not be sore unless—oh no.
“Cal?” My voice went high-pitched. “Cal, I think we got tattoos.”
“What?” He was still facedown, a pillow over his head. “What’re ye talkin’ ‘bout?” he slurred.
I’d never heard him sound more Scottish in my entire life. And if I wasn’t so goddamn hungover and about fifty percent certain I blacked out last night, I would’ve come on the spot.
“I’m talking about the fact that I feel like someone branded me with a hot needle and I think it’s because one of us thought it’d be cute to get permanent body art after a wedding and ten drinks.”
That got him up.
Well, sort of.
He flopped onto his back with a groan, then lifted the sheets to peek under. One hand slid over my waist, gently rolling me despite my dramatic protesting whine.
“Aye, Jesus Christ,” he muttered, awe creeping into his voice. “As if you could get any hotter, m’love.”
