“I was winning,” I inform him.
His smile tells me he doesn’t agree. I’m wrapped in him, and I couldn’t imagine another place in the world I would want to be.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Aksel
“The competition is over. You won nothing while your husband won everything. You must feel very jealous. Has it affected your marriage at all?”
Aksel throws his head back and laughs, the sound easy and genuine. “Cammie, that’s a bold question,” he says, grin unapologetic. “Of course it’s affected our marriage, but not the way you’re implying. We’re stronger now than we were when thisstarted.”
His smile softens, turning earnest. “If we can survive a whirlwind Vegas wedding, a million-dollar competition, and a long-lost parent showing up on national television, then I think it’s safe to say we can survive anything. I couldn’t be prouder of my husband.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Hale
Two years later
Ifinish the last delicate highlights on the massive back piece I’ve been working on for the past six hours. Today marks the third and final session, and I can’t help but step back to admire it. A colossal dragon bursts through storm-dark clouds, flames pouring from its jaws, wingsspread wide in a way that feels like motion and escape. Like freedom.
The client loves it just as much as I do, which never stops feeling unreal.
“That’s wicked,” Layla says, her voice edged with genuine awe.
I glance over my shoulder to find her leaning in the doorway. She’s still just as punk as she was two years ago—leather jacket, combat boots, sharp eyeliner—but now there’s a very noticeable baby bump rounding out her middle, unapologetically present.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling to myself as I look back at the piece. “It turned out pretty great.”
I walk the client through aftercare while gently wiping down his back, then send him up front to settle payment. The trust people place in me, letting me permanently mark their bodies with something I created, still hits me every single time.
When I step out of the room I use as my station, I pause and take in the waiting room of Siren Ink.
Cool ocean blues bleed seamlessly into fiery reds, a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does. A pool table anchors one corner, constantly occupied by hopeful walk-ins killing time in case a last-minute opening appears. Across from it, deep leather couches line the wall, blood-red pillows thrown casually across them. Tall bookshelves flank the space, crammed with everything from fantasy epics to trashy romance.
Near the entrance, a glass display counter showcases our merch and custom jewelry, positioned just in front of a heavy red curtain that shields the piercing room from curious eyes.
Every inch of this place carries us in it.
Eric. Layla. Aksel. Me. Our personalities are woven into the walls. From the day we opened, our books filled fast. Six months out, minimum, and still climbing.
I head down the long hallway, passing Eric’s room first. It’s stark and monochromatic, the walls covered in framed photos of greyscale masterpieces he’s completed over the past year. Next is Layla’s space, a riot of color. Rainbows, neon accents, and bold lines everywhere.
She tattoos women exclusively now. Turns out getting sued after kicking the absolute shit out of a disrespectful centaur who groped her mid-session will do that.
Layla has never been happier with a legal outcome in her life.
Next is my space, splashes of blue mingling with hot pink against mostly bare walls. The only decoration hanging there is a massive canvas of our wedding photo, a gift from Eric last Christmas. I hated it on sight, but between Aksel’s pathetic puppy-dog eyes and the undeniable persuasive power of his gigantic tentacle dick, it somehow survived and earned itsplace.
At the very end of the hall is Aksel’s workstation. Matte black walls set off his breathtaking realism pieces, givingtheroomawarm,almostcocoonedfeel.Hestarted painting again after we moved into the apartment upstairs, and I surprised him with a fully stocked studio. Some of his work he sells, some he gives away. Most of it he keeps, slowly filling both our home and the shop with pieces that feel unmistakablyhim.
I pause in the doorway and watch him work, hunched carefully over a petite omega fairy. A massive lion-shifter clasps the fairy’s free hand as he grits his teeth and whines softly as the needle works over delicate skin. I grin at the scene, already knowing the big guy will more than make it worth his omega’s while later. They’re regulars in Aksel’s chair, openly affectionate in a way that’s both sweet and a little obscene.
I clear my throat to announce myself and step closer, admiring the desert landscape taking shape on the fairy’s forearm. Rolling sand dunes and barren trees stretch across his skin—an interesting choice, though I’m guessing his mate had a strong influence. Aksel pauses to wipe the omega’s arm clean, then tilts his head back just enough to steal a quick kiss.
“Looks like you’ve still got a ways to go,” I murmur, careful not to distract him as he gets back to work.
He hums in agreement, focus settling back into place. Ilingerbehindhimuntilhepausesagaintowipetheskin.
