Page 23 of Strelitzias in Spring

I jerk back as if slapped. “You went to a fucking gang parlor for ink? You realize DeSilva provides the initiation tattoos for the Bógar and Killet crews, right? You could have been in there with fucking members who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of a pretty girl in a vulnerable situation. What were you thinking?”

“I—”

Shaking my head, I cut her off. “Save it. I’m not trying to be a dick, but you put yourself in danger for a tattoo you could have waited for. And from the little I’ve seen, your impatience wasn’t worth it. I fucking told you to call the shop when you decided. Why did you rush it?”

She drops her hands and forms fists at her side like she’s getting ready to hit me for my comments.

“Because I didn’t want to wait. When you refused—no, you had your chance to speak, do not interrupt me. When you refused, I decided to go elsewhere to have it done. The only shop with availability was Royal Ink, so I made an appointment and went. No, to your asinine question, I had no idea that it was affiliated with gang tattoos. I’m not a moron and would never willingly put myself in danger.” She sucks in a breath, shaking her head vehemently. “My God, you act like all tattoo parlors are dens of iniquity and depravity, as though you don’t own one yourself. Yes, I went and got a tattoo that I had to stop because of the incredible amount of pain and the sketchiness of the establishment. No, you cannot order me around or dictate to me like you’re anything other than my friend’s cousin. So kindly see yourself out so that I don’t need to kick you out.”

My eyes widen at her speech, shocked at her words. Shaking my head, I clear the surprise and order, “No. Turn around.”

Her eyes narrow into slits at my words, and she laughs without humor. “‘No?’ You don’t have the right to tell me no. Get the hell out of my apartment.”

“No. I’m sorry for being a dick, but I know you’re in pain, and I know that your tattoo is a fucking hack job, and both of those things piss me off. Now, turn around and pull up your shirt so that I can take a look at the damage.”

She stares at me, her stunning face pinched in a mixture of annoyance and contemplation, before responding to my order. “The only reason I’m doing this is because it hurts, and nothing seems to be helping.”

“If you’re using the hydrogen peroxide in your hall bathroom, it’s water now, so there’s no surprise that it didn’t do shit.”

“Stop being a jerk—” Her voice cuts off at the sound of her doorbell. Her brows furrow as she asks, “Did you order something?”

Pulling out my phone, I check the delivery app to make sure that the items I ordered arrived. “Yeah, shit for your first aid kit because you have less useful things than in a kid’s doctor bag.” I leave her silently fuming in the kitchen and go to the front door to retrieve my purchase. Walking back into the kitchen, I hold the bag up and lift my other hand, twisting my fingers for her to turn around.

“Insufferable jabroni,” she mumbles but follows my silent command and turns until her back is facing me. Grasping the hem of her shirt, I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t need to take her top off but clench my jaw when I see the fucked-up wings of butterflies from her right hip to the center of her back as she whips her shirt off. There aren’t many insects on her body, but what’s there is fucking terrible. Her skin is puckered and red, and obvious infection aside, the tattoo looks like shit. The lines of each butterfly are shaky, and I can spot more than one blowout among the four illustrations.

“Fucking hell, princess. What did they do to you?”

She goes quiet at my words, no longer mumbling insults at me. “I know,” she breathes out so quietly that I almost don’t hear it. I drop the bag on her peninsula island and walk up to her, taking a closer look at the redness covering her skin.

“My shop can fix the work, but we need to get you healed first. Let me take care of your open wounds right now, and then I’ll see how I can help with the healing process for the infection. I’m warning you, Serena…” I reach out and grab her jaw, turning her face until her profile is in view, and she can look up to meet my eyes. Her expression is pained, and I grind my teeth, anger bleeding into my motions. Tightening my hand on her jaw slightly, I continue, “If these don’t heal with topical ointment, you will need to go to the doctor and get an antibiotic. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help, but you need to take care of this before it worsens. Do not wear tight clothes, keep the areas of infections clean and free of harsh chemicals, and do not use anything abrasive.”

She nods, dropping her eyes.

“Hey,” I whisper, gently squeezing her jaw until her eyes meet mine again. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I’ll fix this.”

“It’s okay. You were right; I shouldn’t have gone to that place. I knew that it was a bad idea, but, well…” She pauses to shrug. “I wanted the tattoo, and the original artist I found wouldn’t cooperate.” She bites her lip, drawing my attention down to the plump flesh. I swallow, steeling myself against the wave of lust that rolls through me at the action.

“So your botched tattoo is my fault, princess? That seems like a stretch.”

She shrugs again, a dainty hitch of her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have gone to a dangerous part of town without your refusal to work with me on a design I very much wanted. So, the way I see it, my blood is on your hands, Wolf.”

12

Serena

Being touched by someone with so much obvious strength is a heady experience, especially when they’re doing all they can to maintain a gentleness that doesn’t seem to come naturally to them. Wolf is cradling my jaw like it’s the most precious thing in the world while simultaneously scolding me and telling me what a bad decision I made, as though I’m not fully aware that the piece on my back was a mistake of epic proportions.

I’ve already established that I’m not an idiot, so it’s not as though I’m ignorant of my current predicament. I just chose to ignore it for the last seventy-two hours.

“I’m going to take a look at your elbows and clean them up. I also got you some butter for the bruise on your jaw.”

“Butter? Why would I eat butter for my jaw?” I ask.

“You don’t eat it; you rub it on top of the bruise. My first trainer, Wojotek, was from Poland, and he swore by rubbing butter on bruises to help break up the blood clots and increase the flow of blood to the injured area. I’ve been doing it for years, and it seems to help. Some people use diluted apple cider vinegar or arnica cream, but I can’t stand the smell of either.”

He removes the supplies from the reusable bag as he speaks, lining things up first in height and then alphabetical order as he proceeds. I watch him arrange the labels so that they all face forward, a perfect arrangement of orderliness and functionality.

“My cabinets must have given you a coronary.”

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