Page 136 of Billionaire Romance

Epilogue

Sinclair

I grimace, my forehead beaded with sweat, and grip Ankor’s hand tighter. So tight I swear I’m probably hurting him, but at this point, I don’t care. I let out a low groan through gritted teeth.

“Almost there,” he whispers against my cheek, and it only makes me clench my fists harder.

“Dammit, why did I agree to this?” I hiss through my still-clenched teeth, which only makes his smile bigger, damn him.

“Because you’re my brave warrior,” he points out, kissing my cheek. If I wasn’t in so much pain, I might be tempted to smack him.

But then the sound stops, and the wave of pain recedes, and I look up with a sharp inhale. “Is it done?” I ask. In the mirror, I can see my reflection, lying prone on the table with Ankor beside me, holding my hand in both of his.

Behind us stands the tattoo artist. “It’s done. Honestly, that was your first tattoo? Most people cry or faint.” He laughs. “You did great.”

I blink a few times, shifting my shoulder experimentally. The movement makes me wince a little, but it’s mostly just anticipation. Now that the needle itself isn’t digging under my skin, it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. In fact, now that I think about it, it was more the anticipation that made it bad, not the actual tattooing itself. “Honestly, it didn’t hurt as much as I expected,” I admit.

Then he catches my eye in the mirror with a grin. “Ready to take a look?”

I inhale sharply and nod. I’m even able to relax my death-grip on Ankor’s hand—although I’m still not quite ready to let him go just yet.

I keep holding his hand as I move my quivering legs toward the edge of the table, ready to sit up, though I’m nervous about what I’m about to find on my back.

Ankor, of course, peeks over my shoulder first. I watch in the mirror as his eyes go wide, and he smiles.

“How does it look?” I ask, worrying my lower lip.

But he’s not faking that grin. “It’s beautiful, Sinclair. You’re going to love it, trust me.” Then, of course, he has to come and help me finish sitting all the way upright. I slide my hand around to rest on my stomach as he shifts me, letting out a little grunt of discomfort as all the weight I’m not used to carrying shifts. I feel a little wriggle in my belly, and I run my hand over my skin to let the baby know everything’s all right.

Just another few months, and then I can finally get this kid out of me. Maybe then my lower back will stop its constant low-grade ache.

“You really are brave as hell,” Ankor murmurs, close to my cheek, before he turns to kiss my jawline lightly. Then he helps me stand, and I lean on him until I catch my balance.

Nobody warned me about that. About how my center of gravity would change. I was clumsy enough already; now I’m a nightmare. But when I turn around and accept the hand-mirror the tattoo artist passes to me, so I can admire the tattoo on my shoulder, I forget about the pain it took to get here. My lips part, and I can’t hide the smile that breaks across my face.

“It’s beautiful.”

On my shoulder, there’s now a cresting blue wave, with a passion flower cupped inside of it. Exactly like the flower Ankor once tucked behind my ear, on our first real date. The first time he risked taking me out to a restaurant in town, so publicly. The first time we were spotted as a couple, which led to everything that followed. It led to him finally deciding that he was ready to stop hiding. It led to him asking me to come back to live his life in New York by his side. It led to me forgetting about my fears and my past—deciding to stop letting them define me.

It led to me coming here with Ankor, and becoming Mrs. Helmtree, in a small, beautiful private ceremony at his parents’ place in the Hamptons just over a year ago now.

It led to my whole life. Everything I’d ever dreamed of.

It led to the baby in my belly now. To our future family.

Ankor rubs my shoulder gently, careful not to touch the new tattoo, the ink still glistening and fresh. There are a couple of beads of blood around the edges, but aside from some reddish skin, it doesn’t even look that angry. “I love it.” Ankor smiles at me. “Do you?”

“It’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted.” I flash the artist a huge grin. “Thank you again.”

While Ankor pays the bill, the artist explains aftercare to me. Honestly, after all the books I’ve been reading about all the newborn care I’ll have to be doing for this baby soon, taking care of the tattoo sounds like it will be a piece of cake. Wash it a few times a day, put on proper moisturizer, try not to sleep on it the first few nights.

Easy.

When he releases us, we don’t make it even two steps out of the shop before Ankor stops me and turns me around to admire it again. “You took that like a champ, you know.” He leans in to kiss my shoulder gently, just above the clear bandage the artist applied to the tattoo before I left.

I turn to kiss his mouth. “Hopefully birth will be the same. The anticipation more terrible than actual pain during the event.”

“Let’s hope so.” Ankor runs a hand over my hair, then kisses my forehead, before we both turn toward the car. “Either way, my warrior can do anything. Or should I start calling you my passion flower now?”

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