Until I find a scar, likely hidden by the dark shading of a wing, tucked into the side of my neck.
Pulling up my phone camera, I look closer, running my fingers along the rough ridge.
A scar, one that existed before the tattoo, but after my memories disappear.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I sink my hand into the collar of my shirt to the tattoo hidden there.
Sure enough, across my peck, another rough, gnarly scar, probably two inches wide, a diagonal, jagged piece of hardened skin.
And my hand. Medusa's mouth is painstakingly precise, hiding another healed wound.
I'm sure if I checked the kraken on my thigh and the smaller ones up my arms, I'd find more scars.
A strange, unfamiliar emotion clogs my throat.
Every tattoo was designed to cover the violence done to me.
I turned all the pain I faced into self-expression.
None of the images Brigit finds show any hidden scars; only the tattoos. No one has identified the artist who did them either.
I'll have to ask Skyler. Again.
When Brigit's curiosity goes unsated, she slams her computer shut, shaking her head and mumbling something to herself that I can't hear.
I can't stop the chuckle that slips from my mouth. It stands to reason that she's angry at herself for her desperation to know more about me.
The feeling is more than mutual.
But she can't find what she's looking for without me coming to her.
I just need to manufacture a way for us to see each other again. And again. And again.
Whatever reasons I had for staying away from Brigit before don't matter. I almost left this world without giving her a chance to know me back.
I won't keep making that same mistake.
Chapter 11
Salacious
BRIGIT
Three steps through my front door, I stop dead in my tracks, eyes freezing on the bottle of familiar wine sitting on my kitchen counter, accompanied by two glasses waiting to be filled.
Heart rate skyrocketing, I consider stepping right back out the door before I can be caught in the trap set for me.
I turn to do just that and find myself staring into amber eyes as he leans against the door, arms folded. The mischievous smile gracing his handsome face only makes him appear more sinister as he waits for my reaction to his surprise appearance again.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
He smiles, pushing off the door and heading into the kitchen, searching through my drawers. "You did better this time," he comments. "For a second, I thought maybe you had it with you before I spotted it taped under the coffee table." When he grabs my corkscrew, he waves it in the air to show me his find before using it on the bottle.
"Is it in your pants again?" I scoff.
His replying smile is wholly unrepentant, "Why don't you come find out?"
I don't respond.Can'tactually. Not with the image of reaching into his pants lingering between us.
