I almost wish I was unconscious again.Almost.
No one speaks. No one moves. The entire club stands in silence while their Pakhan marks me with his own hand.
The crown is small, exactly like he said. Cracked through the center. Precise. Deliberate.
Every drag of the needle burns. A hot, biting scrape that sparks down my spine and settles low in my stomach. Enough to hurt. Enough to matter.
He wipes the skin once. The cold drag makes me shiver.
Then the machine starts again.
A few more lines. A few more passes. A few more seconds of that hot, stinging pull.
Then silence.
My body stays braced even after the buzzing stops, my pulse still caught in it.
Maksim wipes the tattoo again, slower this time. His thumb brushes just beneath it, and I feel that touch everywhere. Then I hear the soft tear of packaging.
I glance back as much as I can. Second skin. Of course he has it ready.
His fingers smooth it carefully over the fresh ink, sealing it down with a tenderness that doesn’t fit the room and somehow makes it hit harder. He presses the edges flat, his hand warm through the clear film, then slides my straps back up my shoulders himself. After that, he reaches for my jacket and settles it over me, one side and then the other, like he’s covering something sacred.
When I turn, he’s already looking at me. Not smug. Not smiling.
Dark. Intent. Full of something that sits too deep to name without making it smaller.
Vaska raises his glass first. “To the Pakhan’s queen.”
The room breaks.
Glasses slam against wood. Men shout. Laughter rolls through the bar. Vodka pours. The silence shatters into noise so fast it almost feels violent.
But all I can feel is Maksim.
He catches my jaw, thumb pressing beneath my chin, and his gaze drops to my mouth before climbing back to my eyes.
“Mine,” he says quietly.
Heat floods through me so quickly my knees almost soften. “Yours.”
He laces our fingers together and leads me away from the bar, through the noise, through the cheering men knocking back shots as we pass.
“Don’t kill her before morning,” one shouts.
Maksim doesn’t even slow. “She’ll survive.”
The cold hits the second we step outside. It catches at the strip of skin above my collar and sinks through the thin fabric over the fresh tattoo until the sting flares bright again. Maksim turns me toward him before we reach the bike. One hand cups the side of my neck, careful of my shoulder, his gaze moving over my face like he’s searching for something.
Regret. Fear. Second thoughts.
He won’t find any.
I lift a brow. “That your version of romance?”
His mouth twitches. “No.”
“Good.” I step closer, letting my fingers hook into the front of his jacket. “Was starting to worry you’d gone soft.”
