The day passes quickly, a blur of ink, stress, and surprisingly great clients. One being wanted a massive Bigfoot in the forest holding wildflowers, while another wanted an accurate Pegasus in a cartoon heart. My last client of the day wanted a full underwater sleeve. I swipe the sweat off my brow and glance at the large clock being projected onto the wall. Only afew hours left.
I’m always proud of the work I do, but anything having to do with water, I consider my specialty. Being a Siren means that I have extensive knowledge of all things aquatic. I make it my mission to do amazing underwater tattoos regularly. With my experience, it's relatively easy for me to bring this tattoo to life.
The tiny human woman bops her head to the rhythm of whatever music she’s jamming to as I finish the shading on the upper part of her arm. I concentrate on making it flow as realistically as possible. I must’ve zoned out because before I knew it, I was done and the day was over.
“Set your tools down! You are done for the day, soldiers!” the host yells into the microphone. The screech of the feedback echoes through the room, and several people rub their ears in pain. The man is going to drive everyone crazy by the end of this show.
I pull away from the tiny woman and stretch out my arms and back. I’ve worked twelve hours straight with little to no breaks, and my body feels every hunched-over second. I clean up her skin and give her aftercare instructions, slipping her my card with my normal shop info, just in case she wants more work done at a later date. She’s giggly and happy, so I take it as a win. Her gigantic Werewolf boyfriend also loves it.
Thank the gods.
I might be much bigger than I was in high school, but I still have an omega’s mindset. There’s no way I could hold my own against an alpha Werewolf pissed off that I ruined his girlfriend’s arm. I shake off the uneasy shivers that run through my body at the thought.
I slump into my chair with a groan and wait for furtherinstructions from the monotonous woman who announced the start of the competition earlier. Rubbing my fingers into my eyes until I see sparks, I drop my head back and reflect on how proud eighteen-year-old Hale would be of the twenty-six-year-old Hale I am today. I never would’ve thought I could make it out of my hometown, much less compete on an international show. Hard work and perseverance, plus a little luck in the form of my best friend, got me here. I’m going to prove I earned this. I’m going to show the world that I’m more than who I was raised to be. I wish my mom could see me now. I bet she would be proud of me.
I shake my head to dispel the sad direction of my thoughts. I haven’t thought about my mom in years. I assume she overdosed because I’ve never heard from her. At least that’s how I keep the guilt of leaving her in that hellhole at bay.
Whatever.
I’m proud of myself and the work I put in today. A few more weeks of this, and I’ll be opening a shop with a million-dollar prize backing it. I refuse to even entertain the possibility of losing. Not now. Not after everything.
Eric skips over to my station and collapses against my table like he’s just survived a battlefield, one dramatic hand flung over his forehead. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in my life,” he groans. “Two half sleeves in one day, and Ibarelyfinished the second one.” He peers at me with exaggerated misery. “We’d better win this thing if that’s the kind of suffering I’m expected to endure.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” I say, crossing my arms and slouching lower in my chair. My back is screaming in protest now, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“Who’s being melodramatic?” Eric gasps. “I. Would. Never.In my life. Be. Melodramatic.” He clutches at imaginary pearls like he’s auditioning for community theater.
I chuckle at his antics. He could give William Shatner a run for his money. I’m enjoying my rest right up until a voice I hoped I’d never hear again slices clean through the moment and freezes me in place.
“Fylgja? That you?”
I drop my chin to my chest and let out a quiet, defeated groan. Ofcourse, he’s here.
“Hale?” the voice tries again, softer now. Uncertain.
For half a second, I consider pretending I’m someone else. A stranger. A man named… I don’t know,Dave. Dave doesn’t have beef with this walking problem. Dave lives a peaceful life.
“Oh, Hale,” Eric says loudly, leaning in with unholy glee. “How do you know this hunky guy? Past hookup? Future hookup? Please tell me before the suspense kills me.”
Well. There goes my plan of being a mature adult.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I stand and turn to face my past. “Hey, Aksel.”
Eric lets out a low whistle. He knows exactly who Aksel is. His name comes upfrequentlywhen alcohol is involved.
“I knew it was you,” Aksel says, barely sparing Eric a glance before his focus locks back onto me. He looks me over slowly, thoroughly, like he’s committing me to memory all over again. I have to consciously stop myself from shivering.
Stupid hormones.
Stupid alpha.
Stupid everything.
“I’m competing,” he adds.
I’m so distracted by the way his eyes are dragging over methat it takes a few seconds for the words to actually sink in. When they do, my stomach drops somewhere near my feet and I make a sound that’s… not dignified.
“Huh?” I manage.
