I take her wrist in my hand; her pulse fluttering against my thumb as I position the needle. The buzz of the machine fills the room, and I see her tense slightly at the sound.
"Look at me," I tell her, waiting until those hazel eyes meet mine. "Just keep your eyes on me. If it gets too much, tell me and we'll take a break."
She nods, her gaze never leaving mine as I lower the needle to her skin. The first contact makes her flinch, but she doesn't pull away. Her eyes widen slightly, but then she relaxes, her body adjusting to the sensation.
"Good girl," I murmur, so low only she can hear it. Her pupils dilate at the praise.
I work slowly, carefully, watching her face for any sign ofdiscomfort as I bring the purple octopus to life on her skin. The little fucker wraps its tentacles around a cluster of stars, just like she's wrapped herself around my fucking heart. Each line I draw feels like I'm claiming her in some primal way that goes beyond sex, beyond words.
"You doing okay?" I ask, wiping away excess ink and a tiny bead of blood.
"Mmm," she hums, her eyes still locked on mine. "It stings, but I kind of like it."
That sends a jolt straight to my cock. Of course she likes the pain. She's perfect in every fucking way.
Nico hovers nearby, occasionally grunting in approval or adjusting my hand position slightly. "Not bad, baby boy," he murmurs. "You got steady hands now I see."
Rolling my eyes, I ignore Nico’s dumbass. I finally finish the last star and sit back to admire my work.
The purple octopus looks almost alive, its tentacles curling protectively around a scattered constellation of tiny stars. It's cute but not childish, delicate but not fragile—just like her.
"Done," I say, my voice rougher than I expected. I clean the area gently, watching her face for reaction. "Go ahead and look."
She finally breaks eye contact to glance down at her wrist. Her breath catches, and for one heart-stopping second I wonder if she hates it.
"Ramsey," she whispers, turning her wrist to examine it from every angle. "It's fucking perfect."
I did that. I put that mark on her. My art, my creation, will be on her body until the day she dies.
Chapter 27
Reese
The purple octopus on my wrist feels like it's watching me, its tiny tentacles wrapped protectively around those scattered stars. I can't stop staring at it. Ramsey's mark on my skin. Permanent. Forever.
I trace my finger over the fresh ink, still tender and slightly raised under the plastic. The skin around it is pink and warm to the touch. It's fucking perfect, just like I told him. But it's more than that. It's something I didn't know I needed until he gave it to me.
Through the front window, I watch Ramsey handing Nico what looks like way too much cash. Nico's laughing, shoving part of it back, but Ramsey insists.
The door opens, and he walks back in, his eyes immediately finding mine. There's something different about him now—something darker, more possessive. Like putting his mark on me changed something fundamental between us.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
I don't answer right away. Instead, I just look at him—really look at him. The sharp line of his jaw. Those intense blue eyes that never miss a fucking thing. The way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, highlighting every muscle I know is underneath.
"I know you," I finally say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Better than most. You've been my protector, my best friend, my confidant for four years." I stand up, moving closer to him. "I know my sister told you to stay away from me, but we've crossed that line and so many more."
His eyes darken as I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head in one fluid motion. My bra follows, leaving my upper body completely bare. I’m going to have to force him, make him snap.
"What are you doing, Reese?" His voice is strained, like he's fighting for control.
"What does it look like?" I unbutton my jeans, sliding them down my hips with deliberate slowness. "I'm tired of this dance we're doing."
I step out of the denim, standing before him in nothing but black panties. The tattoo on my wrist feels like it's burning, a physical reminder of the claim he's already made.
"Are you gonna fuck me," I ask, cocking my head to the side, "or am I going to have to get someone else to?"
Something snaps behind his eyes—something unhinged and dangerous. In three long strides, he's on me, his hand wrapping around my throat with just enough pressure to make me gasp. His fingers press against the sides of my neck, not cutting off my air but definitely letting me know who'sin control.
