Finn breathed out a laugh, covering his mouth to stop the sound.
“It doesn’t, but I’d like to know why you have one.”
“He’s not a teenager anymore, Marsh,” Finn said, his mouth unable to stop from smiling.
“Don’t,” our oldest brother warned.
“I’m not,” I said. “I’ve met someone and I don’t think you want any more details than that.”
I shifted my weight, hoping I didn’t grimace again. The backs of my thighs were still dark and striped with bruises and handprints. Riggs had slathered me with that gel of his on Wednesday night, and while it had eased the pain somewhat, it hadn’t accelerated the healing. I didn’t mind. On Thursday, I’d taken a picture of them in the mirror because I wanted to remember what they looked like after they were gone. Even if things didn’t work out with me and Riggs, which I hoped they would, I didn’t want to forget how good he made me feel.
It was terrifying to hold Marshall’s stare, but I did it anyway.
“Marshall,” Hunter said tentatively. “He’s the same age as Silas, right?”
That had somehow been the right and the wrong thing to say. Marshall’s face burned a violent shade of pink, and he dropped his stare to the almost healed tattoo on my arm. Whatever wrap Riggs had put on it had been great, really horrible to get off, but it had healed up quickly, and a healed tattoo meant…
It meant lots of things.
“The tattoo, then?”
“A little rebellion,” I said.
Marshall arched a brow, stare flickering toward Finn. “Thought he wasn’t a teenager.”
“Heisn’t,” I snapped. “And he is right there. I got a tattoo because I wanted one. I don’t need another reason.”
Hurt flashed across Marshall’s face, almost lost in the red of his cheeks and the dark stare of his eyes, but I idolized that man and knew his reactions almost as well as I knew my own.
“You didn’t ask—” He stopped himself before he finished the thought. “You didn’t talk to me about it.”
“That was the point,” I murmured, brushing my fingertips over the shaded buildings on my forearm. “I wanted to do something for me.”
Marshall exhaled and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Let me see it,” Finn said, reaching across the table.
Of the four of us, he was the brother I knew the least, on account mostly of how close he was with Hunter, but the pride that radiated off of him as he took my wrist into his grip and examined my tattoo was impossible to miss.
“The two of you and your buildings,” he said, giving me back my arm.
Marshall clenched his jaw.
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t know details but I know Lincoln approves of him,” Hunter offered, shrugging one shoulder.
I worried, briefly, that Lincoln had shared all my secrets with Hunter, but I also knew he never would. He wouldn’t keep secrets from my brother, and I should be happy about that.
“Has Lincoln met him?” Marshall asked.
“No, but we talked.”
“You can’t love Lincoln the way you do and not trust him about this,” Hunter said gently. “You know I’m right.”
Marshall swallowed, stare flickering between the three of us. He was outnumbered, and he knew it. I’d never meant for him to feel small, but it was nice, for once, to feel big.
“What’s his name?”
“Riggs.”
