Page 35 of Nemesis

“I did no such thing,” I hiss.

His sneer morphs into a smug smile, and he grabs the hem of my shirt without warning. He yanks it up, my arms automatically lifting to help him.

Goosebumps prick along the backs of my arms in the cool air. I belatedly cover my chest, although my bra isn’t super revealing. It’s one that I had lying around Olympus, since my original was wet.

He sits and scoots his stool closer.

“Here.” He presses on the ball of my right shoulder. “This is payment for me saving you earlier.”

I roll my eyes.

“Are you going to tattoo a realistic dick on me?”

He pauses. “Um…”

“Because if you do…” I lean over and tap his chest. “I’ll flay off your favorite tattoo.”

Saint turns away abruptly, finished readying his equipment and my skin. And then something soft drops into my lap, and I pick up the strip of my blouse.

“Did you seriously just cut my shirt?”

“Yep. Tie it around your eyes.”

I growl.

“Or I will tattoo that realistic dick on your face when you’re sleeping.”

“I’d never sleep through that.”

He chuckles. “You’d be surprised at how much drugs can hold you under.”

He doesn’t know.

My shoulders creep higher, but I force myself to remain calm. It seems like everything lately is a reminder of my past. Dark hallways, bruises, pain. And then floating along the bottom of the river, swept away by a powerful undercurrent… Some daysthe longing to go back there is stronger than the horror of what I faced.

It’s those days that I fight at Olympus.

I let out a slow breath and tie the scrap of fabric around my head. I go still, every muscle tensing. It’s silent in the shop, and the first touch of something against my skin makes me jump.

He laughs at me. “It’s a marker.”

He continues for some time, switching to a sharper one, and then,finally, the tattoo machine buzzes to life.

“Tell me what he did.” Saint’s voice curls in my ear.

“I…” I lick my lips. “He brought up past trauma.”

The needles bite into my skin at the same time that I finish my sentence, and I suck in a sharp breath. My abdomen clenches, my hands ball into fists.

“Past trauma,” Saint questions.

“There was a boy from… a dark time in my life.”

“You have a dark time in your life?”

I don’t like not being able to see. I don’t like not knowing if he’s mocking or serious. And the bite of the needles as he drags them across my skin is surprising. It hurts, yes, simultaneously worse and better than I would’ve expected.

Better because it scratches that itch. The one that wants me to float along the bottom of the river, half unconscious, or stand at the bottom of the ocean and wait until my lungs are bursting.

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