Page 80 of The Wolf Prince's Mate

Clay stepped closer, pulling me to his chest for the second time that day. This time, I was the one clinging to him as panicked breaths escaped me and memories flashed through my mind.

His hand on my throat.

His voice in my mind.

I hadn’t looked in a mirror yet—had he scarred me? Marked me permanently? Changed me, somehow?

My hand shook as I lifted my phone, turning the camera on and using it to look at my neck.

Bile rose in my throat at the sight of the healed marks on my skin. The phone clattered to the street just before I fell to my knees and heaved.

Nothing came out, but nausea churned my stomach.

Memories flashed through my mind.

The car, rolling.

His hands.

The ink on his arms, as he?—

My entire body trembled.

The ink.

I recognized it. I knew it.

It was unique. Symbols whose meanings I hadn’t recognized, woven through a forest and sky. When an image search hadn’t pulled up a single hit, I figured the symbols didn’t have a creepy or gross meaning and agreed to ink them.

That was years ago, and he had been back.

Repeatedly.

My stomach churned again. Clay’s hands were around my waist, holding me up, but I barely noticed him through the nausea.

More memories crashed into me.

His scent.

His smirk.

The way he’d stared at my tits every time I inked him.

I emptied my stomach, and dry-retched again.

I’d touched him. Put my art on his skin. Talked with him over and over again.

He’d been right in front of me. My most loyal client. And I hadn’t even realized it.

I could hear his dark chuckle from that night. Feel his hands on my skin.

I wanted it gone.

I wanted to be free.

My hands yanked at the shirt I had on, tearing it away from my skin as I pressed my palm to the center of my chest. Sucking in deep, desperate breaths, I tried to push the feelings away, and failed.

“His name is Don,” I rasped. “He’s one of my clients. His ID will be on record with the studio.”

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