Page 17 of Our Secrets and Scars

The style is simple but beautiful in its minimalism. The way the words stretch across my skin, letters linked together like lovers holding hands, I can’t help the smile that lights up my face at the sheer perfection of them. The style of the writing is familiar too, like I’ve seen it a thousand times before.

I’m so blown away that I almost miss the way the finalsof the phrase curls subtly into the shape of another letter. A letter that has no business being etched into my skin. If you weren’t looking closely, you’d miss it, but it’s there. And now that I’ve noticed it, there’s no way I can’t unsee it.

“What the fuck is that?”

He comes to stand behind me, smirking at my reflection in the mirror. “What?”

“The randomhyou’ve drawn at the end?”

“Oh.” He chuckles. “That’s my initial.”

I rear back, spinning on my heel to stare up at him with fury blazing in my eyes. “Why the fuck would you put your initial?”

“I sign all my tattoos.” He shrugs.

“Without the client’s consent?”

He wipes a hand down his face and cocks his head to one side as he assesses me. “You gave me your consent.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. One, you told me I could do what I want. Your words. And two, it was written on the consent form that you signed.”

I’m gaping. I can feel the chilled air in my mouth, but I can’t stop. I snap my jaw shut, only for it to fall open again.

“You didn’t read the consent form?” he asks disbelievingly. “You’ve never been told to read every contract twice before signing it?” The cocky amusement on his face makes me want to punch him.

Of course, I’ve been taught that. I want to be a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. It’s common fucking sense.

So, why hadn’t I done it?

“Whatever.” I huff, giving up the fight and walking back to the bed in the center of the room so that he can wrap up the tattoo and give me a pamphlet with instructions for aftercare. When he’s done, I ask, “How much is this gonna cost me then?”

“Nah,” he says, looking down at me with sparkling gray eyes and a face more sinful than he deserves. “It’s on me, little one.”

I blink at him, stunned. “I can’t let you do that.”

But he ignores me, walking out of the room without another word, as if he just expects me to follow. And I do, though I hate myself for it. But this man seems to have the ability to command me without even speaking and put me into situations that would usually make me uncomfortable, but with him, I find it kind of thrilling.

He makes me feel like the vibrant and bold Kinsley I was before the fire and not the cautious, almost boring Violet I am now.

I don’t understand it at all.

Isla’s waiting for me when I emerge back into the entrance room with a bemused expression on her face. “Girl, what?”

I wave her off. “I’ll tell you at home.”

Her eyes glitter playfully, but she nods and turns to leave.

A hand catches my arm as I move to follow her, long fingers curling around my wrist and tugging me backward.

“So, do you like it?” he whispers. “The tattoo?”

I look up at him, at the cockiness of his expression and the easy confidence with which he conducts himself, yet I find an almost imperceptible flicker of self-consciousness hidden within the ruggedness of his features. He wants to appear self-assured, but he’s hungry for my reassurance.

I give it to him. “I love it.”

“Good.” He grins and releases me. My skin instantly goes cold at the loss of his touch.

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