My skin crawled. I went to pull away, but Cut said quietly, “Do as you’re told, Ms. Weaver.”
Jethro sucked in air, his ire buffeting me. “This isn’t how tradition states.” His head shot up to face his father. “Cut, I should be the one—”
Cut’s features blackened. “There are a number of things you should be doing, Jethro. Yet you don’t do any of them. What makes you so eager to do this one?”
I looked between the men, all the while trying to forget my hand rested on Daniel’s thigh. Apprehension bubbled in my chest as he pressed a button on the side of the tattoo gun. Immediately the machine hummed with life.
Vertigo swirled in my blood at the thought of being permanently marked. I’d never had a tattoo, nor did I want one.
Jethro leaned forward. “This is my right.”
His eyes met mine.
My tummy twisted.
My skin ached to be touched, to be kissed, to be bruised with lust.
Gritting my teeth, I shoved away those treasonous thoughts. I forced myself to focus on my mother’s tombstone. Instantly, every desire fizzled into ash.
Daniel tore open an alcoholic wipe with his teeth, and swiped the disinfectant across the tip of my finger, breaking our connection. He grinned, holding up the buzzing gun. “Ready?”
“Cut!” Jethro growled.
I squeezed my eyes, biting my lip in preparation of the pain.
“Stop.”
My eyes tore open at Cut’s angry command.
“Enough, Daniel. Make Jethro do it. Can’t break tradition, after all.”
Daniel threw a disgusted look at his father. “You were never goingto let me do it, were you?”
Cut glowered at his youngest offspring. “Watch what you say.”
Jethro shifted to the edge of the couch. “Give me the gun.”
Daniel ignored him.
His father snapped, “Daniel, give the gun to your brother.”
A glaze of inhumanity and insanity flickered across his eyes. Without permission, I stole my hand back, grateful it no longer had to touch his horrible leg.
I’m living in a madhouse.
Jethro snatched the gun. The vibrating equipment settled between his fingers.
Twisting to face me on the couch, he raised an eyebrow, looking between my hand and his leg.
Ugh.
Obediently, I placed my hand on Jethro the exact same way it’d been on Daniel. The moment I touched him, he sucked in a breath. I tried to ignore the awareness snapping between us. I tried to fight the lashing heat.
I no longer wanted it—not after yesterday.
But it seemed Jethro couldn’t control it, either. He bowed over my hand, unsuccessfully hiding the thickening hardness between his legs.
Licking his lips, he focused on my hand. His cool fingers imprisoned my index—the one without a Band Aid on from pricking myself while measuring out material—and pressed the tattoo gun against my skin.
