Page 107 of Lana Pecherczyk
“Human or bird,” River said softly. “Magic or not, your mind is incredible.”
“You say that now,” she intoned. “But in a few years, when I remember details about something vital to our argument from yesterday, you’ll complain that you always”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“‘lose by default’ and will end up resenting me for it.”
It’s what everyone eventually did. Not just Jeff. People hated feeling inferior, and recalling more details was the quickest way to make them feel that way. Since Blake couldn’t change how her brain worked, she’d grown to avoid having an opinion about much. Except for her Hidden Gems.
“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t win arguments with words.” River waggled his dark brows.
She laughed. “And I suppose Mr. Brown wins arguments for you?”
“Such a dirty mind, Sparkles. But no. I wasn’t talking about the bastard downstairs. I was talking about flashing the ones upstairs.” He flexed his biceps, posing like some kindof Michelangelo statue. “Males fear them.” He kissed one. “Females go nuts for them … as you demonstrated earlier.”
When she had no snappy comeback, he said, “See? I win.”
“You haven’t seen me flash me tits yet. So … jury’s out on that one.”
He slapped his heart as though he’d taken an arrow. “She talksandfights dirty.”
Chapter
Thirty-Four
Pain lanced through Blake’s wrist with each tap of the bamboo needle. River’s calloused fingers steadied her arm, his concentration absolute as he dipped the thorn tip into blue-black ink. The caravan swayed, yet his hand remained perfectly steady, tapping a rhythmic pain into her skin with practiced precision.
He’d put on pants, which was a crime in Blake’s mind, but at least he’d left his shirt off. Studying his broken tattoos gave her something to focus on.
“Almost done,” he murmured, adding the final touches to the feather design she’d chosen from the history book. “You shouldn’t have picked your wrist for your first. Thin skin and bony parts always hurt worse.”
“Worth it,” Blake whispered, transfixed by the emerging pattern. Her first permanent mark in this new world—chosen, not forced upon her like the Well’s blue glow.
River blew gently across her skin, clearing excess ink. His breath sent shivers racing up her arm. The tattoo shimmered in the slanted light filtering through stained glass—blue-black lines against her olive skin, feathered edges delicate.
“Looks good on you,” he said, voice low. “Traditional crow pattern. Means ‘protection.’”
Pride bloomed in Blake’s chest. “I probably should have asked what it meant before choosing it.”
His gaze flicked up to hers. “I wouldn’t have let you choose something stupid.”
“When did you learn to do this?” she asked, noting his hands’ expert precision.
“Every crow knows basic hand-poking. Can’t remember when I learned.”
Blake snorted. He was too old to remember. She mumbled under her breath, “Old fart.”
“What?”
“Nothing. And what about those?” She pointed to the different tattoos on his arm, the ones swirling with prismatic color.
His tone shifted, grew distant. “Guardians can use metal needles with power-enhancing ink.”
“Why doesn’t everyone have them? Seems like a no-brainer.”
“They’re not exactly what you would call safe. The process of extracting the ink includes dipping into the inky side of the Well. It’s dangerous and forbidden, but Guardians get away with it.” He traced a broken pattern on his biceps where lightning had disrupted the flow. “Used to have more, but Cloud…”
His voice trailed off, but Blake caught the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The way his pupils contracted slightly.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, brushing her fingers near the scarred, jagged edges of his disrupted tattoo.
River’s eyes met hers—startled, wary, then guarded again. “Nothing important does.”
