Watch the way her expression shifts from nervous to determined to something that looks almost like pride.
"It's perfect," she whispers.
Rook peels off the stencil, and the outline remains on her skin.
My name. Right there.
He starts the gun.
The first touch of the needle makes Grace gasp, her hand immediately tightening on mine.
"You okay?" I ask, leaning closer.
"Yeah. Just—" She grits her teeth. "God, ribs really do hurt worse."
"Want to stop?"
"No." Her voice is firm despite the pain. "Keep going."
So Rook keeps going, and I watch my name appear on her skin letter by letter. S. H. A. D. O. W.
Each letter rough and branded-looking, like it was burned into her skin with a hot iron.
Permanent.
Forever.
Grace's breathing goes controlled, measured.
The way someone breathes through pain.
A few tears leak from the corners of her eyes—automatic response to the pain, nothing she can control.
I wipe them away with my free hand.
"You're doing so good, darlin'. So fucking good."
"How much longer?" Her voice is strained.
Rook doesn't look up from his work. "Maybe ten more minutes. You're handling it better than most. I've had grown men tap out on rib work."
"She's tougher than any man I know," I say, and I mean it.
Twenty minutes later, Rook sits back. "Done. Want to see?"
Grace sits up carefully, wincing at the movement, and Rook holds up the mirror.
My name.
Right there on her ribs in rough, brutal-looking letters below the Shotgun Saints insignia.
Property of Shadow, even though those words aren't written. The placement, the style, the permanence of it—it all says the same thing.
Mine.
"I love it," Grace whispers, her fingers hovering over the fresh ink. "It's perfect."
Rook cleans it, applies ointment, and bandages it carefully. "Keep it clean. No swimming for two weeks. Moisturize three times a day. You know the drill."
