Every word is a crack in his armor. And every touch is one in mine.
Next, I take his left hand and lift it between us. On the back of it, inked in heavy black lines, is a rose made of shattered glass and flame—petals cracking like they’ve been thrown from a Molotov.
“That one,” I say, brushing over the twisted stem curling into his wrist, “feels angry.”
He turns his palm toward me. “It is. My first riot. Fifteen. It burned. But it bloomed anyway.”
“Beautiful and destructive,” I say.
“Like you,” he replies without missing a beat.
I roll my eyes, but I don't pull away. I take his other hand, flipping it gently.
A black serpent coils there, looping twice around the bones of his fingers and vanishing up his sleeve.
“Tell me this one isn’t biblical.”
He laughs, the sound lazy and low. “No. She’s not temptation. She’s protection. Fangs out for the people I love.”
I drag my fingers lower, across the dip of his waist and to his left side, where a pair of black wings burns up his ribs. One is whole, majestic. The other is singed at the edges, curling like ash.
“Icarus,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought I could outrun the sun. Got too close. Paid the price.”
My fingertip moves gently over the burnt edge. The wings curl like scorched parchment against his skin, fragile and angry. “Did you fall?”
His gaze sharpens, voice low. “Not all the way. But I didn’t listen either.”
He pauses, something hollow flashing through his eyes. “I was warned,” he says. “She warned me. She told me I was flying too close—that if I kept trying to fight our father on his terms, it would end in flames. But I didn’t listen. I thought I could handle it. That I could protect her.”
I let my hand rest flat over the ink, feeling the heat beneath his skin that has nothing to do with body temperature. “Your dad?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His jaw clenches. “He warned her too. Told her to walk away from Rinaldi. Told both of us what would happen if she didn't obey. I begged her to listen. But she wouldn’t. Said she loved him. Said she’d die before she gave him up.”
I suck in a breath, eyes locked on the scorched edge of the wing.
“She died trying to protect something that was never going to be allowed to live,” he finishes, voice flat. “So yeah. Icarus. Because some of us were born knowing better—and still fly straight into the flames.”
I pause at that. My chest aches in a way I don’t have the vocabulary for.
The warmth of his skin seeps into my fingertips. Each tattoo tells me something more about him—about the man behind the danger, the violence, and the mask. And it doesn’t match the version of him I built in my head—the cold, calculating crime boss who never let anyone close. That man wouldn’t bare his soul to me in ink. Wouldn’t let me touch these pieces of him like they mattered. But this one does. And it’s shattering every assumption I had.
A thought hits—did he take drug last night?Is the drug why he is like this today?Vulnerable and real.Is that why he looked at me like I was the only person in the room? Is that why he touched me like I mattered?
Of coursehe did. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Because the alternative—that he meant it, felt it, and wanted me—feels too big to hold.
My chest squeezes, panic flaring beneath the surface.
What if I’m still not sober? What if everything I’m feeling now is just a chemical echo of last night?A synthetic attachment I mistook for real. Because if it’s not the drug—if this is real—then I don’t know how to protect myself from it.
And suddenly, his words echo in my mind.Love will get you killed.
Sera died because she believed she could love someone dangerous and survive it.What if I’m doing the same thing?
I open my mouth to ask… something. Anything. But all that comes out is air. My throat is thick with the weight of things I can’t admit—not to him, not to myself. My fingers curl slightly against the sheet, grounding me.
The room feels too quiet, too still, like the moment could tip either way.
