Still, he chews on his response, avoiding my eyes. “The mind is fragile. And I think we both know that if she hadn’t escaped, she’d probably be dead like Laura.” The cutslut they found. “Whatever happened to her when she was gone was probably so bad she can’t bring herself to talk about it. At least not without it being on her terms.”
I tilt my head. “Since when did you become a therapist?”
He smirks without looking up. “Time served, man. I may not have the degree, but I’ve put in the hours.”
Then he turns the screen toward me.
In clean and elegant script:“Memento Mori.”
Remy’s an incredible artist. Always has been, but… “That’s not the Beta Rho symbol.”
“Look, I’ll do this,” he says, “but there’s no fucking way I’m giving you a shitty pentagram.”
Honestly, it’s a lot cooler than the pentagram. “Fine.”
He nods, like it was never in question. “Where do you want it?”
I lift my hand, running my fingers over my left eyebrow–feeling the faint ache already, or maybe just imagining it. “How about here?”
He lets out a low whistle. “Bold choice. The old man is gonna hate it.”
Remy moves with the kind of calm efficiency only artists or killers have. He opens a drawer, pulls out stencil paper, a small pot oftransfer gel and gloves, snapping them tight over his wrists. The room fills with the sterile, harsh scent of disinfectant.
“Hold still,” he says, voice quieting into his work mode.
He brushes a cold wipe across my brow, the skin prickling from the sudden chill. Then he paints on a thin layer of gel with two fingers, smoothing it across my skin.
Remy positions the stencil against my skin, leaning in close. The paper warms under his fingers as he presses it down with even pressure.
“You’ve got more piercings than I remember.” His gaze flicks to the hoops threading through my brow. “This your work?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He nods. “You work on anyone else lately?”
“Just the Baroness,” I say.
Remy grunts. “I like working on Vinny, too. Spread all out like a canvas.”
I know what he means, piercing and tattooing, it’s intimate. Vulnerable, especially if it’s with someone you’re attracted to. Just thinking about Arianette’s tits and clit makes my dick twitch.
The stencil sets. Remy peels the backing away with a single, smooth motion. In the mirror on the wall I see the crisp, purple outline ofMemento Moricurved perfectly over my brow.
He steps back, assessing his placement with a critical eye, and the room goes quiet except for the low buzz of the machine heating up.
“How’s that?”
I twist my head, looking at it from all angles. “Looks good.”
“All right,” he murmurs. “Lean back.”
The tattoo gun whirs to life–angry, familiar, electric. My pulse picks up with it, and I brace myself.
The first touch is a sting–a needle dragging fire along bone. A burn blooms under my skin, radiating up into my forehead and down behind my eye. But I hold still. I’ve had worse. Hell, I think of the scar on my neck. I’ve survived worse.
Remy falls into a steady rhythm. The buzzing and the sting blend into one sensation, the kind that makes everything heightened, butalso feels grounding. Sweat prickles at my hairline, and I do my best not to wince.
Remy’s quiet the whole time, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with focus. The Remy I knew freshman year never sat still long enough to breathe. This version–a little older, a little haunted–moves with more intention and control.
