Page 111 of Devil's Tulip

At first, I assume he has brought me snacks, but when I look closer, my stomach flips. That’s not food. Those are… instruments.

My pulse quickens as I recognize the sleek, black machine I know to be a tattoo gun nestled among several other mysterious things I don’t know the names of but suddenly seem very, very ominous.

“Well? How’s studying coming along?” he asks, setting the tray on the bed as he approaches me. But I barely hear him. My eyes stay locked on the equipment, drawn by morbid fascination and growing dread.

When Michael stops in front of me, he places his thumb and index finger beneath my chin and lifts my gaze to his. Amusement dances in his blue eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, love.”

I blink, shaking off my daze. “Oh. It’s… going okay, I guess. First day, so nothing’s really sticking yet.” Still, I’m getting a kick out of remembering everything we were taught back in school again. “What are those?” I nod towards the bed as much as I can with his grip on my chin.

“Oh, those?” He barely spares a glance back. “Just the tools I’ll need for your tattoo. Would you like to take a break from studying to get it done now? I promise it will be quick.”

I had already suspected as much, but hearing him confirm it sends a dull thud through my chest, and a sliver of panic crawls down my spine. “Oh, so soon?”

He reads my fear with unnerving accuracy and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Can’t risk you changing your mind—like I can see you considering right now. Besides, it's been a week.”

A week since I foolishly offered to let him mark me permanently. What the hell was I thinking?

I bite my lip nervously. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get it over with,” I concede, knowing there’s no escape. “What design did you decide on?”

His hand slips from my chin and he presses a soft, chaste kiss on my lips as he steps back. “You’ll see. Now, come.” Then he picks up the tray and heads for the door.

After a moment of paralyzed indecision—during which I consider locking myself in the bathroom—I follow him. “Shouldn’t I change out of this outfit?” I ask, partly because I don’t look all that good in my pajama shorts and his oversized shirt, but mostly because, well… I really wouldn’t mind delaying the inevitable pain for a few more precious minutes.

He glances back at me briefly. “You’re fine.”

Once we’re at the foot of the stairs, I expect him to lead me to the front door, to the car, and for us to drive to some upscale tattoo parlor where professionals will handle this delicate procedure. Instead, he takes a sharp turn towards the back of the stairs—towards the rooms there that I haven’t had time to explore. I had assumed they might be security rooms or something.

But then he opens one of the doors, and my lips part in surprise.

The room itself is pretty spartan; there’s only a black, oversized leather chair with cushioned armrests and a footrest pushed against one side of the wall, with two wheeled stools beside it. On the other side, a neat workspace is set up with clean tools laid out on the desk—but what really catches my eye are the designs fixed to the wall above it.

Some of them I recognize.

Because they’re inked on his body.

It’s his private tattoo room.

The realization is kind of wild. But then again, he has so many tattoos on his body that, when I really think about it, it would be weirder if hedidn’thave such a room in his house. I mean, imagine having to haul himself to a shop every single time he wanted new ink. That would be a pain in the ass.

Michael heads straight for the workspace, sets the tray down, then gestures towards the leather chair. “Have a seat.”

I make my way over and perch daintily at the very edge, like the thing might bite.

He starts unloading everything from the tray before covering the surface with a paper towel and arranging the items back on it. Then carries the prepared tray over, placing it on one stool while he takes a seat on the other.

“You need to sit all the way back,” he instructs distractedly as he moves things around on his tray, and I awkwardly do as he says. In his current position, he’s close to my left hand, which he lifts gently, pressing a tender kiss against my knuckles. “You ready?”

No.Absolutely not.“I guess.”

Another kiss, this time to my ring finger, before he carefully slides off my ring. I watch him in silent fascination as he takes out a disinfectant wipe and thoroughly cleans the skin.So that’s where he wants the tattoo.

My heart rate skyrockets. “Aren’t finger tattoos extremely painful?”

He glances up at me, looking completely unbothered. “I don’t know about extremely, but yeah, it’s probably more painful than tattooing other parts of the body.”

His honest answer doesn’t help a bit. Would it have killed him to lie? Said, ‘Nah, it’s just a little tickle.’ Something?

As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “But you’ll be fine. You can handle it.” He lifts an unlabeled ointment dispenser. “I got this from a pharmacist I have on retainer. It’s a topical numbingcream he crafted specifically for tattooing parts of the skin close to the bone. It’s still in its early stages and hasn't received any official approval, but he swears by it.”

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