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Darien’s expression was impossible to read. He looked…like he was being tortured or something. His reaction was so extreme and so…unexpected…that she didn’t know how to respond.
“I really want conduit tattoos,” she told him. “Is there a reason why you think I shouldn’t get them?”
“Is concern for your safety a good enough reason?” His answer sent a ripple of heat up her spine. Suddenly, she knew exactly why he looked so tortured, and the realization only made the heat that was spreading through her body more intense.
“I won’t use them,” she said softly, “unless it’s an emergency. I promise.” She didn’t want a repeat of her time spent in a coma any more than Darien seemed to want it.
Darien said, “You can do whatever you want, and I’ll support it.” That hint of concern in his eyes still lingered, but his tone was resolute. He shifted his attention to Giovanni. “Do whatever she says.”
She turned to look at Giovanni, who suddenly appeared more torn than anyone, his eyes brimming with suspicion.
“Will that be a problem, sir?” she asked him. Gods, she’d had no idea this would cause such a scene—and would make her feel all sorts of funny over Darien’s unexpected reaction.
Giovanni cleared his throat and rolled his tray closer. “My tools will let me know if it is.” He put on a pair of black nitrile gloves.
Loren glanced about, avoiding Darien’s stare this time—she wasn’t sure she could bear the intensity again. “What does that mean?”
“Giovanni’s tools are enchanted,” Kylar explained. “The guns decide what type of ink you get and where it goes. It’ll react to your aura and the messages it gives off.” Loren had to admit, it sounded kind of cool.
Until Giovanni put on a blindfold.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“Being able to see is not part of the process,” he said, grabbing things with the kind of confidence that a person who wasn’t blindfolded would have. “The tools will guide me.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Your wrist, please, Miss.”
The first tattoo was small, consisting only of basic line work in black ink. It went on the same arm as her medical tattoo and was shaped like a calligraphic C, the tail looping into a heart that ended in a zigzag, like a line on a heart-rate monitor. As she stared at the finished tattoo, a bead of light budded at the start of the C, looped through the heart, and zigzagged into the tail before sinking into her skin and dimming.
C for Caliginous on Silverway.
Giovanni switched ink pots and held his hand out again. “Your palm now, my dear.”
The palm hurt the most. It felt like her skin was on fire, and it became so intense as he shaded in the small symbol with metallic ink that her eyes started to tear up, and her breathing grew shallow.
Darien was at her side in an instant. He dragged a free chair over and sat down. Despite the lingering intensity between them, having him closer oddly made her feel more relaxed.
And when the burning sensation turned into stabbing pain, her hand lashed out, as if with a mind of its own, and grabbed onto his jacket sleeve.
Gods, how embarrassing was this?
Especially when Darien pried her fingers off the canvas.
“I’m sorry,” she said, preparing to pull away—
But he laced his fingers with hers.
Something flickered in her mind. A broken memory of a blinding white hospital room, crepe paper crinkling under her, and the feel of this Darkslayer’s big hand cradling her own. The sound of his rich voice murmuring words she couldn’t remember but wished she could.
Loren blinked rapidly, and the memory vanished like the little ball of light that had sunk into her wrist. “Have we done this before?” Her words were strained and breathy.
Darien’s swallow was visible. His eyes were still guarded like before, but in a different way now. “Yes.”
Giovanni declared, “Next hand.” He and Darien switched places.
And Loren could hardly handle the butterflies in her stomach anymore than she could handle the pain when the Darkslayer gently cupped her other hand, being careful not to touch the inflamed skin around the new ink.
The buzzing resumed.
“Why did you do it the last time?” she asked Darien, flinching as the gun worked away. “Hold my hand, I mean.”
