Page 83
Age 24
Eleven Years Ago
Iwas far too attached to Blackwood.
He almost always appeared after my worst attacks, always with medicine, always with comfort.
Always with those striking cobalt-blue eyes that sang to my soul.
Eyes that matched his.
There were a hundred thousand reasons why Severin couldn’t be Blackwood.
Their voices didn’t match.
Their builds were different.
Their demeanors were nothing alike.
But their scent was nearly identical—bergamot mixed with chai tea, or sometimes coffee instead of tea.
Maybe my brain was conjuring dreams, or my heart was begging for hope, but I wanted Blackwood to be Severin with all my soul.
Because then it meant he’d never left me and he’d never forsaken me.
Yes, he would have given me to this place, but he’d also been the one to glue my broken pieces back together.
Blackwood never once assaulted me. He never touched me without my permission or even dared to kiss me—ever. He was the epitome of respect and consent in a place where I was a sex doll with three rentable holes.
But it was never like that with Blackwood.
Perhaps I was brainwashed, clinging to the only thing that felt good in my life.
Blackwood only wanted to ease my pain. I knew I shouldn’t trust him, but with no one else to turn to and no hope left, even the lesser evil felt like a lifeline.
And he was my lifeline.
Tonight, I sat curled in his lap, his chin resting on my head as I traced the tattoo on his arm.
Blackwood always wore a mask, so I’d never seen his face, but his tattoo was another matter. I saw it.
An intricate tangle of black snakes formed a tree, their bodies twisting into roots, a trunk, branches, even leaves made of scales. It was art, the kind of tattoo that must have taken multiple sessions and countless hours to complete.
Tracing the scales grounded me, and being in his arms and focusing on something so simple was comforting.
The tattoo, however, was the strongest evidence that Blackwood wasn’t Severin, but some rich stranger obsessed with me.
After all, blue eyes weren’t rare. Ten percent of the world had them, which meant hundreds of millions of men did, and Blackwood could have been any one of them.
Plus, Severin didn’t have any arm tattoos.
None.
Although he could have gotten one since I’d been taken.
It had been two years.
More than enough time for new ink.
