Page 148 of Roses Are Dead
Of course, the fucker named an outrageous price.
“I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Like hell you will. First hack who touches your woman, you’ll go through the fucking ceiling. Then you’ll kill ’em. At least you know it’ll get done right by me.”
And it was. I leaned in to admire the fine lines Fin had colored in. We decided it would be cool to do part of it in a deep rose flesh color to match the original scars, but then outline them with UV ink. I held up the black light to see the effect.
And practically fainted again.
Somehow, I managed to blink away the darkness hovering at the edges of my eyes and watch the light dance along her skin.
“That’s one kick-ass tattoo.” Fin wiped at her skin again to clean up a spot that wept a little. “Put that light up here.” He held a mirror so Rose could look at the ceiling mirror and watch the little streaks of lightning shimmer and dance. It was a work of art.
And my worst nightmare sometimes. I loved every inch of her, and on those more tormented nights, I relived that moment when I glanced up and watched her fall. Then the fire flared up. And in its glow, Carl grabbed her by the hair. My stomach did a flip-flop even though I only thought about it.
“It’s beautiful.” Rose clutched the mirror and shifted to see the entire piece.
I traced one of the patterns that ran down the back of her leg like a striped stocking. The branches were so much smaller there. But that damn line went right down to her heel where the worst of the damage exited like a bullet wound. She could hardly put pressure on it for weeks.
Four skin grafts on her wrists, and two on her heel. She had macular holes in the vision of her right eye from the flash that might never fade completely.
But she was mobile now. There was only a slight hesitation with her left leg when she pushed too hard, or was tired. We jogged the trail together as therapy. And when she had rough days, we went to visit Beth.
Carl died on November first, the day of the martyrs, right about the moment I ass-planted on the floor again. Beth’s transplant was only a few hours later. And almost immediately she improved. So did Rose.
It had been months since then, and the day after New Year’s I’d made it official. Rose was mine. And I hers. A set of patches on her coat read “Property of Bear” and a crazy hodgepodge of witch symbols were sewn into mine, along with a custom, black hat patch that read, “Cross his witch and die.”
I found room for that right under my heart.
And she wore a hammer necklace I’d given her at Yule. It was a miniature version of mine, more delicately made with little lightning bolts carved amongst the circlets of knot work. Tiny crescent moons flanked the handle. It was one of a kind, like my witch.
My finger stopped on her foot and I quickly ran it down the arch. She flinched and kicked her leg up. That cute divot behind her knee winked at me. I wanted this woman, badly.
“Hey Fin, do you mind?”
He read my face and the innuendo I’d broadcasted plainly. “Of course, I fucking mind. I need to wrap her up before you maul her.”
“Bear.”
I ignored Rose’s warning. She was naked, barely a towel between her and Fin’s elbows and hands as he worked. Meanwhile I had to watch him mark her up for the last two months. I’d shared her skin enough. “I got it. Leave, old man.”
He sighed. “Hey Betty Jo, remember when you flashed your ass at me?”
“You keep telling all these idiots about that day, and you’re never going to see my ass again.”
Fin leaned in, conspiratorially. “I tattooed a shark on her ass.”
I ran my hand up Rose’s leg and under the towel. “Well, I guess I beat you for sheer coverage.”
He snickered.
“Well, someone did.” He stopped to give Rose some advice about care. “And if this asshole faints again, let me know. I’ll?—”
“You’ll do nothing, Finnigan Curty. She’s Bear’s.” Betty Jo led him out of the private room in my shop.
It took only a few moments to apply the Saniderm. I ran my hand under Rose’s towel. “You heard what Betty Jo said?”
She rolled over, letting the towel fall away. “That you’re mine?”
