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A genuine smile.

“I’ve always seen you, Olive. Even when I shouldn’t.”

Then, he puts our helmets back on and whisks us off to God knows where, taking me on a road trip around the city.

He stops at the Formula 1 Grand Prix Circuit where he finagles us a modified F1x2 two-seater race car and tests my ability to let out ear-splitting screams as he swerves on the asphalt, the car nearly kissing the guardrails. Needless to say, he’s a much better driver than he was in his younger days, but my legs are jelly when I climb out.

He rides by the Casino de Monte Carlo, the grand and iconic coral-colored building, which looks as beautiful in person as in Bond films, with luxury cars parked out front. The charity gala tomorrow will be next door at one of Fleur’s umbrella establishments, the iconic Hotel de France.

For the next few hours, Rex shows me a side of the city I don’t see in movies or guidebooks. The small nooks and crannies, the private gardens bursting with succulents, off the beaten path neighborhoods where locals lounge in lawn chairs, kids kick soccer balls down the streets, enjoying life after school.

Then finally, he comes to a stop in a nondescript building tucked away in the Condamine district per the signage I saw moments ago. Blue Old-World shutters frame the windows, and laundry hangs from iron balconies.

“What are we doing here?” I ask when he laces his fingers in mine and tugs me toward a partially open door.

Inside, I hear the soft buzzing sound of a needle, smell the distinct scent of antiseptic agents and leather, and see a few chairs and stations in a brightly lit space.

Rex has taken us to a tattoo parlor.

Wide-eyed, I look at him, and he winks before turning to a bald, burly man with two beautiful sleeves of ink. They speak in rapid French because, of course, Rex would know French too.

Then, he pulls me with him as the man leads us to a station in the back.

“Wh-What are you doing?” I watch in bewilderment as Rex sits down. He’s getting a tattoo? Now?

“I should think that’s obvious.” He smirks and rolls up his sleeve, exposing the arm with the scars from his childhood.

The old ache flares again as I imagine a young boy doing this to himself because he holds so much pain inside him, but has no outlet because he thinks his role is to bring happiness to others.

A familiar burning appears behind my eyes, and I smooth my finger over the small marks.

Then I frown, because I notice new black marks over the scars. It’s shaped like a bite mark.

Is that what I think it is?My mind flashes to our romp in my office a week ago, when I bit his wrist in the throes of orgasm, tasting blood. It was feral, messy, and so hot.

My eyes snap to his, finding a smug smile on his lips.

“Just to prove to you what I told you is true, I’m getting my first ever tattoo on this pristine, glorious body for you. You should be honored.”

I swallow, my mouth running dry. “What?”

He shrugs, not elaborating further as the artist comes back and preps Rex’s arm. Then the man begins his work.

An hour passes by as I admire the intricate artwork appearing on his wrist—the bite mark linking with the small scars like vines, followed by one single, lifelike olive. I’m in awe.

Underneath the olive are two words written in script.

My Forever.

My throat prickles as I stare at the image of me inked on his skin.

Me.

Unable to help myself, I press a quick, but thorough kiss on his lips when the artist steps away.

“Rex, I love you,” I whisper.

He freezes, his breath hitching.