Page 157 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
The tattooist gestures to me. “Give me your hand, please.”
I rest it on the small table, palm down. He cleans the skin, marks the spot, then adjusts the machine. The faint buzz fills the room.
When the needle touches my skin, I barely feel it.
When he’s finished, he wipes the area carefully, applies a thin layer of cream, and wraps it.
“Keep it clean,” he says. “No soaking for a few days, and use the ointment twice daily.”
I nod. “Got it.”
He leaves us to it.
At reception, I take out my card and pay, holding Ophelia’s hand in mine.
The Paris air is colder now. She presses closer instinctively, and I draw her against my chest, my arm firm around her shoulders.
“I can’t believe you actually did that,” she says softly. “You tattooed my name on your ring finger.”
“Until we’re officially married,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw, “and you put that wedding ring on my hand yourself, people should know I’m yours.”
She looks up at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.
I lower my mouth to her ear, my voice low against her skin. “I don’t need a ring to remind me who I belong to, Ophelia. But now the world will know it too.”
She exhales slowly, her lashes lowering.
I press a kiss to her temple and pull her closer. “This isn’t just ink, ma lune,” I say quietly. “It’s a promise. One that doesn’t fade.”
Chapter 58
Ophelia
The cab pulls up outside the villa, the same one Octavia and I arrived at earlier today.
And suddenly, everything falls into place.
The dress, the trip, the timing.
It was all planned.
“Where’s my sister?” I ask as the driver pulls the car to a stop.
We step out, Arlo’s hand finding the small of my back.
“She’s fine,” he says quietly. “Safe. But she’s not here. Tonight isn’t about anyone else, Ophelia. It’s about us.”
I open my mouth to reply, but before I can, the world tilts.
I gasp as he lifts me clean off the ground, throwing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Arlo!” I laugh, smacking his back. “Put me down!”
He doesn’t even slow. One hand grips me firmly at the curve of my arse while the other pushes the front door open. His stride is steady, each step echoing through the silent villa.
“Arlo,” I warn, trying not to laugh, “I swear—”
The bedroom door swings open. Then closes behind us with a heavy thud.
