“Don’t get excited.”I wipe the blood again and drag the needle across the curve of his thigh, slower this time.“When this tug of war turns on you, and it will, you’ll already have my teeth in your throat.”
“Promise?”
Rather than taking the bait or acknowledging the heat tightening in my boxers, I concentrate on the tattoo.
“You only have it half right.”He watches me like he’s several moves ahead on the board.“Thisisabout the art.Yourart.It’s also about access.”
“To her,” I growl.
“To you.Dove’s already mine.”He lets the words hang, then continues slowly, like he’s explaining a truth I’m too stupid to understand.“She surrounds herself with broken things.Strays.Freaks.Tortured souls that are too much trouble to keep.I don’t need to pull her away from you.She does that herself.”
Stray.Freak.Too much trouble to keep.
That’s me.
I have trauma like other people have blood pressure—high, genetic, and emotionally triggered.I have scars I don’t remember earning and instincts wired for survival, not connection.I know I’m a risk.A walking warning label.Broken in places I’ll never let anyone see.
But hearing him say it so casually makes my chest hurt.He’s not poking at a wound.He’s shoving his fingers in it and grinning at the twitch.
I don’t rise to it.I don’t need to, because I’m not just damaged.
I’m dangerous.
And Jag just reminded me why.
He straightens to a sitting position, not caring how close he is or that he’s naked or that my needle’s in his skin.
“Seduction is part of the play.”His voice sinks into intimate darkness.“Her lovers, her friends, they never see it coming.A few smiles, a well-timed confession, and suddenly they’re looking at me like I’m the answer to problems they didn’t know they had.”
“You’re such an inspiration.Really.”I force my attention back to the tattoo, the whirring machine barely audible over the pounding in my ears.
“You’re no different, Strakh.The way your hand shakes when it gets too close to my cock, the way you won’t look at me unless you’re thinking about killing me or kissing me… That’s not hate.That’s friction.And friction is how fire starts.”
“Is that what you told Gavin before you gift-wrapped him for Dove?How’d that work out again?”I glance up, eyes cold.“Oh, right.She left him at the altar and came hunting you.”
“Gavin was a mistake.”
“Then by all means, try again.I could use the exercise.”
A few minutes later, I finish the final strokes, the vibration of the machine tapering into silence.
“That’s all for today.”I wipe away the stippling of blood and excess ink and study the raw, reddened skin.
The lower half is fully inked, the claws sinking into a half-shaded anatomical heart, feathers curling along the base, and veins tangled with circuits that trail into clean outlines waiting to be filled.A beast mid-transformation.
It’s not finished.But it’s already alive.
I hate how good it looks.
I hate what it says about the man beneath it.The obsession.The need to own something fragile and call it love.
When the jaguar is complete, I wonder what he’ll ask for next.
I wonder if I’ll give it to him.
I wonder if he’ll live long enough to finish the entire leg.
I peer up at him, finding his head tipped back, breathing slow, and eyes lowered, hooded, savoring his view.
