I don’t move.
She closes her eyes—too overwhelmed, too raw—and I feel her breathe against me, soft and uneven. I could stay like this forever, holding her together with my hands and my body and sheer will.
But Frankie clears her throat, shaky. “You two… need to finish up and get out. Like now.”
Valentina nods, shaky but determined. She pushes away—but not far—and moves toward the chair. She hesitates, then looks at me.
“Stay close,” she whispers.
“Always.”
She climbs onto the chair on her knees, back arched slightly as she pulls her hoodie up enough to expose her lower right side. Her skin looks impossibly smooth under the lamp’s glare. The dip above her hip is a curve I shouldn’t be staring at but can’t stop.
I stand behind her, hands settling on her hips firmly this time, not pretending restraint. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t tell me to stop. My thumbs brush slow, steady circles into her skin as Frankie outlines the sigil—the Raider crest surrounded by roses with petals edged in sharp points.
Valentina winces at the first bite of the needle, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair. I lean down, my lips close to her ear.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
She leans back into me—not dramatically, just enough that her spine touches my stomach. Enough that I feel her warmth, her trembling, her trust. I hold her steady, hands guiding her hips through every flinch, every tensing muscle.
She whispers, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“I don’t need to. You picked it.”
My breath catches.
Frankie finishes the shading, swipes away excess ink, and steps back. “Done.”
Valentina exhales shakily, pushing herself upright. She wobbles. I catch her waist, pulling her into me instinctively, her back against my chest.
She doesn’t pull away.
She rests there—just rests—her head tipped back slightly, her breath brushing my throat.
Frankie pretends not to notice. “All right, saint boy, your turn. Chest up.”
I lie back. Valentina doesn’t leave my side. Instead, she sits on the small edge of the chair beside me and places her hand low on my stomach, fingertips touching the waistband of my jeans.
The touch sears.
Frankie finishes the last strokes quickly. “Done. Now get out before Axel returns for round two.”
I stand. Valentina stands. She sways again and I grab her hip—firm, steady, guiding. She leans into my touch without hesitation.
We step out into the dim afternoon. The street looks empty.
Too empty.
Valentina presses close to my side, tension radiating off her.
And then I see him.
Across the street. Leaning against the wall.
Axel.
