Page 14 of Canvas’ Muse

Her voice is confident, but I can hear the old hurt underneath it. The kind of pain that never fully goes away, just gets buried deep.

"I spent two years trying to make myself smaller, literally and figuratively. Tried every diet, skipped meals, wore baggy clothes, kept my head down. Tried to be invisible so they'd leave me alone." She pauses at a red light, checking the mirrors. "It didn't work. They still found reasons to torment me. So, I made myself a promise."

"What promise?"

"That I'd never lie low and just take it again. Ever." The light turns green and she accelerates. "If someone comes at me, I come back harder. If someone tries to make me feel small, I stand taller. I don't run. I don't hide. I face things head-on, consequences be damned."

There's steel in her voice, the kind forged by surviving something that should have broken her but didn't.

"This is different, Eden." I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make my shoulder scream. "This isn't high school bullies. This is the Vipers. They don't just call names or exclude people. They kill. They hurt people in ways that—" I stop, not wanting to spell out exactly what they've done to women who got in their way. "This can be deadly."

"I know." Her hand tightens on the wheel. "I'm not stupid, Davis. I know what I'm walking into."

"Then why—"

"Because running away now would be lying low. Taking it. Letting them win." She glances at me, and there's defiance in her eyes mixed with something else. Something that looks like fear she's choosing to face anyway. "They shot at us. They tried to kill us. And I refuse to let that make me small again."

"Besides," I say, the pain medication loosening my tongue, "you're beautiful. They were all wrong about you."

Her head whips toward me. "What?"

"Those kids who bullied you. They were wrong. Idiots, all of them." I close my eyes, the medication making everything feel distant and fuzzy. "You're confident, capable. That matters more than what some insecure teenagers thought."

"Shut up." But there's no heat in it, just embarrassment.

I chuckle and immediately regret it. The movement sends fire through my entire body—shoulder, ribs, everywhere. A groan escapes before I can stop it.

"Don't laugh," Eden scolds. "You'll tear Saint's stitches and then he'll kill both of us."

"Noted." I breathe through the pain, focusing on the passing streetlights outside. "Sorry. The meds are making me say shit I shouldn't."

"It's fine." She's quiet for a moment. "Thank you. For saying that."

We drive in silence for a few minutes, following Ranger through quieter streets as we head toward the outskirts of town.

"Why did you really start tattooing so young?" Eden asks eventually. "Sixteen is early. Most kids that age are focused on sports or grades or getting into college."

It's my turn to be quiet. To decide how much truth to tell.

"It was either tattooing or fighting," I finally say. "Those were my two options for dealing with the shit in my head."

"What shit?"

"My mom died when I was ten. Cancer. Fast and brutal." The words come easier than they should, probably thanks to the medication lowering my inhibitions. "My dad didn't handle it well. Became an alcoholic. Angry drunk. The kind that uses fists more than words."

Eden's sharp intake of breath tells me she understands.

"By sixteen, I was angry all the time. Violent. Getting into fights at school, on the street, anywhere I could find someone willing to throw down." I watch the road ahead, the buildings getting sparser as we leave downtown behind. "I was going to end up dead or in prison. Knew it. Didn't care."

"What changed?"

"Met this older guy who did tattoos out of his apartment. Tommy. Sketchy as hell, probably shouldn't have been anywhere near a sixteen-year-old, but he saw me getting into a fight outside a gas station and offered me a different option." I remember that day clearly, the blood on my knuckles, the rage in my chest, the way Tommy looked at me like he saw something worth saving. "Said I could come at people with my fists, or I could come at the world with art. Either way, I'd leave a mark. Question was what kind."

"So, you chose art."

"Chose art." The memory is bittersweet. "Tommy taught me everything. How to use the machine, how to design, how to see skin as a canvas instead of just flesh. And every time I wanted to punch someone, I tattooed instead. Drew something. Created instead of destroyed."

"Did it work?"