Page 74 of The Devil's Scars

He nodded, settled back into position, and Zoe thought of a large jungle cat in repose. Huge and dangerous and maybe a bit sleepy in the sun, but able to go from drowsy kitten to killer beast in seconds.

You got this, girl. Skin and ink, just skin and ink. Come on, now.

She checked the ink bottles that Arrow had placed on the glass work table, saw red, green, white, black, and grey. He’d also brought out a few fresh needles, and lots of wipes and antiseptic and disinfectant. She checked the tattoo gun, saw that it was ready, and adjusted the light a bit.

“OK,” she said, switching the ink from yellow to black, and putting in a new needle, just to feel like she was starting from scratch. “Here we go. How big?”

“The same size as the Roman numerals.”

“Gotcha.”

Zoe fired up the gun, pumped the foot switch a few times, and leaned over Scars, mightily ignoring how great he smelled. Over the next twenty-five minutes, she focused on nothing but the tiny patch of skin that she was inking, on every individual rose petal and leaf, on every crack in the ice that she added for depth.

She most definitely did not notice the sinewy curves of his muscles under her fingers, or the way that his incredible chest rose and fell with every breath, or his tight, hard abs that had jumped under her kisses, or the smattering of dark hair that trailed down his chest and stomach and disappeared into his well-worn jeans.

No. She saw none of that.

Yeah, right.

She worked quietly and efficiently, but not too quickly. Despite her anger at being put in this position, and her eagerness in wanting to shift his hot ass off the table ASAP, she found that she actually really cared about making this tiny tattoo beautiful. She pictured the flower as something delicate, with an inner strength and light, that protected it from the icy cold, even as it was trapped by it. She wanted the rose to have grace and power, to have confidence in its own vulnerability.

She finished, moved the light a bit more to check a petal or two, then smiled.

“What do you think?” she asked, pulling off her gloves. “Is it OK?”

Scars didn’t answer, so she glanced up.

“Scars?”

He was staring at her, just staring like he’d never seen her before. Startled, she jumped a bit.

“What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” he responded, his voice lower than usual. “It’s… it’s incredible. It’s got such a… what? A light, maybe. A quiet glow. Strength and fragility. It’s waiting for spring to set it free.”

“Good.” She smiled, rolled her chair backwards and away a few feet. “That’s what I was going for.”

He nodded, swung his feet over the side of the table to face her, and suddenly, she saw his scars under the bright work light. She blinked as she saw them – really saw them – for the first time.

God, they must have been born out of such pain. Agonizing pain. From the first night they’d met and she’d shaken his hand, Zoe had been totally confident and sure that they were burns, but suddenly, she wanted to hear from Scars how he’d been so damaged by fire… what… twenty years ago? Maybe a bit more? He’d have been a teenager, surely? Her eyes traveled up the raised, scarred roads of hell that he carried with him, up and across his chest, down both arms to his hands, then back up to his face.

Scars had seen her expression change and sharpen, seen where she was looking, and he’d sat very still. She moved her eyes to meet his now, and that’s when she caught herself. She muttered an apology, started to push the rolling chair back a bit.

Scars grabbed her hand. “Hey. It’s OK. You can ask.”

“No. Oh, no, Scars. It’s private. It’s none of my business.”

“It was a car accident,” he said softly. “I was nineteen.”

She gasped, horrified, stood up. She came closer to him, close enough that her thighs were touching the fronts of his knees. “The car caught fire?”

“It was on fire, with me inside.” Scars paused, wondering if now was the time to tell her about his parents, decided to go ahead. “I was trying to –”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice gentle, and he paused, a bit taken aback at the interruption, and this side of Zoe that seemed to appear without warning, without rhyme or reason. “You must have been in so much pain, for such a long time.”

“Actually, the pain was bad for only a couple of weeks,” he said, rushing to reassure her. “And off and on, depending on the drugs. Really, Zoe… I was mostly numb after the first two days. Nerve damage, you know.”

She nodded, and then, before he quite knew what was about to happen, she reached out. He held his breath, absolutely unable to believe that she was voluntarily touching him. There was nothing sexual about any of this, but he didn’t care. Having her hands on him at all, in any capacity, and for any reason, made him indescribably happy.

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