Page 105 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Brick’s home. He can handle dad duty for a few hours.” Rowan stands, smoothing down her shirt. “Besides, he’ll be napping soon anyway.”
“I should check with Atlas first?—”
“Honey, you’re a grown woman making personal choices about your own appearance. You don’t need permission from anyone, even the men you love.”
She’s right, of course. But after months of careful coordination, of checking every decision against security concerns and strategic implications, making an impulsive choice feels foreign.
“What if they don’t like it?”
“Then they’ll learn to like it,” Rowan says firmly. “Your body, your choice.”
“Besides,” Evie adds with a grin, “trust me when I say that men who love you will think you’re gorgeous no matter what you look like.”
Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in Marcelo’s private studio, staring at myself in a mirror surrounded by bright lights while he circles me like an artist evaluating a blank canvas.
“Bone structure’s good,” he mutters, lifting sections of my hair. “Skin tone can handle dramatic changes. Eyes are your best feature, so we’ll want to emphasize those.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Complete transformation. Hair color, cut, and styling. Maybe some strategic makeup techniques to change your face shape slightly. Nothing permanent besides the ink, just dramatic enough that you look like a different person.”
“How dramatic?”
“Depends on how brave you’re feeling.” He meets my eyes in the mirror. “How brave are you feeling, Ember?”
I think about the question seriously. Six months ago, I was Agent Hayes, following orders, maintaining covers, living carefully within predetermined boundaries. Today, I’m supposedly dead, carrying the child of three men I love, free to become anyone I choose.
“Pretty brave, actually.”
“Good answer.”
The transformation takes four hours. Marcelo works with the focused intensity of a master craftsman, sectioning, coloring, and cutting. Evie and Rowan provide commentary and encouragement, treating the whole process like a celebration.
“Color’s processing,” Marcelo announces, setting a timer. “Twenty more minutes, then we’ll see what we’re working with.”
“What did you choose?” I ask, though he’s kept the formula secret.
“Trust the process. You’ll love it.”
While we wait, he shows me sketches for potential tattoo designs. Page after page of artistic possibilities, from delicate florals to bold geometric patterns to realistic portraits.
“What speaks to you?” he asks.
I flip through the drawings, studying each design for emotional resonance. Roses feel too common. Celtic knots too generic. Abstract patterns too impersonal.
Then I see it.
Three interlocking circles, each containing a different symbol. Wolf, mountain, flame. Simple but meaningful, representing the three men who’ve become my world and the life we’re building together.
“That one.”
“Good choice. Where?”
I consider placement options, thinking about visibility, professionalism, and personal meaning. Finally, I point to my left shoulder blade.
“There. Where I can see it in mirrors, but it’s not obvious in professional clothes.”
“Perfect. We’ll do that after the hair reveal.”
