Deep, black ink spreads across his arm, sharp and intricate against his skin.
Thorns. Beautiful, devastating thorns. They coil from his knuckles, winding up his hand and climbing his forearm in long, intertwined strands. The design is impossibly detailed—each thorn sharp, deliberate, etched with crisp precision.
The vines circle his wrist twice like restraints before snaking back toward his knuckles.
The same design spills across his other arm as he unwraps the second bandage.
Twin patterns. Coiling. Interlocking.
The edges of the tattoo are still angry and slightly raised. The skin around them faintly pink.
Fresh. Painfully fresh. He must’ve gotten them finished last night.
My chest tightens.
It looks… beautiful and brutal all at once. I’m staring so hard I barely notice when he finishes pulling the bandages off.
My gaze traces the lines again and again.
I jump slightly when his voice rumbles through the quiet. Soft and cautious. “You kept… looking at my hands that day.”
My eyes snap up. But he’s staring down at his forearms.
“You kept looking at them when I showed you your apartment,” he continues quietly. “Like they would…” His jaw tightens. “…like I would hurt you with them—again.”
God.
He lifts his gaze then, forcing me to meet it. The torment in his eyes makes my chest ache. Then he offers me both his hands, palms up. “These aren’t the same hands anymore, Charlotte.” His voice drops rougher. “I won’t let them be.”
What the hell is he doing? Why has he carved that reminder into his skin? Why would he brand himself with the memory of that day?
No. It’s not a reminder.
It’s restraint. Forever inked into the skin of a man who realized I couldn’t even look at his hands without flinching.
And yet, I stare at the black thorns winding around his wrists. At the quiet pain sitting in his eyes.
Why am I not flinching now? Why am I awed?
I sober quickly, forcing down the strange warmth creeping up my chest.
“There’s an all-out war going on and you’re… getting tattoos?” I say flatly, not actually expecting a response.
His brows lift, a spark of challenge flickering in his eyes. “Work-life balance, Charlotte.” He smirks. “I know how much you excel at it. Why can’t I?”
I shake my head automatically. Then freeze.
Wait, what?
My gaze sharpens. “How do you know I excel at it?”
His face drops instantly. The smirk vanishes like someone flipped a switch. For a second he stares at me, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then he gulps. Once. Twice. But nothing comes out.
“How, Ruin?”
“I-I just—” He clamps his mouth shut so abruptly his jaw clicks.
