Page 20 of Semi-Fallen

Fortunately, the inside of the tattoo parlor did not smell like pee. It smelled clean, like Clorox wipes and Pine Sol floor cleaner. It was brightly lit, too—both with overhead fluorescents and lamps by each workstation that gave the place an almost home-y vibe.

A woman who was about an inch shorter than Lane (which was weird, because in her experience, only kids under the age of twelve were shorter than her) with a pink mohawk and five—no, six—visible facial piercings offered them a friendly smile from her spot behind the shop’s chrome-and-glass reception station.

“Hi,” she said, cracking her gum. “What can I do for ya?”

“Are you Nyla?” Lucien asked.

“Yep.”

“This is Lane,” he said. “Riddick sent us.”

Her eyes lit up. “Aw, I love that guy! What a big, sweet teddy bear. How’s he doin’?”

Lane could only blink at her. Surely, she was referring to another Riddick, because no one in the history of anyone thought Noah Riddick was a sweet teddy bear.

Lucien looked as confused as Lane felt at the woman’s characterization of Riddick. Then he said, “Yeah, he’s a sweetheart. He’s fine. He thought maybe you could help us with this tattoo.”

He slid the letters he’d sketched on a napkin to Nyla, who suddenly shifted from friendly greeter mode into serious tattoo artist mode as she studied the design.

If the design wasn’t delivered via ink-dipped needles, Lane would’ve been all for it. The letters themselves were beautiful. Enochian, Lucien had explained. An ancient protection spell that should keep her off other soldiers’ radar until they could execute a long-term plan for keeping her safe.

And finished, the entire tattoo would only take up about a 3” by 3” swatch of skin. So, they weren’t talking about an entire sleeve of designs, or anything dramatic like that.

But since the design was delivered via ink-dipped needles and Lane hated needles, she wasn’t looking forward to any of this.

Nyla looked up and shifted her gaze back and forth between them. “Who’s getting this?” she asked.

Lucien dropped a hand on Lane’s shoulder and she tried really hard not to shiver. Did his hand have to feel that good on her? It just didn’t seem fair somehow.

“I can do it,” Nyla said, giving Lucien a hard-eyed stare. “But I need to hear that she wants this.” Her gaze shifted to Lane. “Honey, you do want this, right? He’s not trying to force you into anything? ‘Cause I’ve got a baseball bat right under this counter and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Lucien shook his head, but Lane smiled wide. I’m good, she signed. Thank you for your concern, though.

Lucien tried to interpret for her, but Nyla held up a hand to stop him. “I got it.” She grinned at Lane before signing back to her, Then let’s get started, because your new tattoo is going to be fucking awesome.

Lane appreciated her enthusiasm. She didn’t share it, but she appreciated it.

Nyla clapped her hands together enthusiastically and gestured with a flourish to her workstation, which was spotless and organized to within an inch of its life. Every item was lined up just so, making her think Nyla was a hopeless perfectionist. Now that, Lane appreciated.

Lane sat in the reclining leather chair and looked over at Lucien when Nyla asked where she wanted her tattoo. She’d been so concerned about needles, blood, and pain that she hadn’t given the where of the tattoo much thought.

His heated gaze told her he’d given the where of her tattoo way more thought than she had. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was picturing her wearing the Enochian phrase and nothing else.

But surely he didn’t think like that about her…right?

Her breath stuttered as he held her gaze, then it stalled altogether when he slid his hand over her heart. One deep breath and he’d be touching her nipples, which immediately went hard enough to cut glass. Seriously, they were dangerously hard. Nyla should put traffic cones or crime scene tape around her chair.

“It needs to be here,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. She felt the vibration of his words all through her body. All. Through. Her. Body.

Lane didn’t agree or disagree. Couldn’t have said a word if her life depended on it. And she had no idea how long they stayed that way, gazes locked. It could’ve been seconds, minutes, or millennia they spent with his warm hand pressed against her pounding heart. All she knew for sure was that it felt…right having his flesh against hers.

And she wanted more.

What the hell was wrong with her? If being a Nephilim didn’t get her a one-way ticket to hell, lusting after an angel surely would.

That’s when Lucien’s gaze snapped over to Nyla’s, so Lane let hers do the same.

“OK,” Nyla said. “If y’all are done with…whatever the hell that was, we can get started. Yeah?”

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