I curl up to sit, slipping my t-shirt back on as Cal cleans up. “You ready?” I ask Chey, taking in the way her body is coiled tightly with anticipation.
“Definitely,” she says with an emphatic nod. “I know exactly what I want.”
“Then c’mon over, and I’ll draw it up,” Cal says as he pushes up from his stool, turning on a heel and waving for Chey to follow him.
I hang back as she goes to join him at his desk, glancing around at the art displayed on the walls while I give the two of them space to work. Most of the frames contain sketches, all depicting Vanessa Diaz-Conway, Cal’s mate and muse. Thisentire shop is like a shrine to her. I used to find it weirdly obsessive, but now that I’ve got a mate of my own… yeah, I get it.
“Hop up, Iver,” Cal barks as he and Chey return, directing her to take my place on the table and lie down. The three of us chat as he gets all set up, and I take a seat on Chey’s opposite side, taking her hand and lending my support.
She flinches at the buzz of the tattoo gun when he turns it on and I take her hand, raising it to press my lips against her knuckles. “If it hurts, you can stop,” I remind her.
She shakes her head determinedly. “I’m no stranger to pain. I’ve got this.”
“You do,” I growl, pressing another kiss to her knuckles.
Chey flinches at the first touch of the needle to her skin, but it doesn’t elicit a visceral reaction. To the contrary, she sinks into it remarkably fast, a relaxed expression coming over her face as she grows accustomed to the sensation. I rest my chin on the edge of the padded bench, the two of us staring into each other’s eyes while Cal creates art on her skin.
I check in with her every few minutes, but she takes it like a champ, never complaining or even wincing at the sting of the liquid silver. It doesn’t even occur to me that I never got to see the design they came up with until Cal announces that he’s finished, flicking off his tattoo gun and sitting back with a satisfied smile.
“Can I see it?” Chey asks eagerly, pressing up on her palms.
Cal reaches behind him for a hand mirror, passing it over to her. I watch as she lifts it in front of her face, a gorgeous smile coming to her lips.
“What do you think?” she asks, twisting toward me. “I wanted it to mean something, so I took the worst moment of my life and covered it with the best.”
My pulse skips as I drop my gaze to the junction of her neck and shoulder, taking in her fresh ink. It’s a splash of the nightsky in watercolor ink, the full moon shining bright and stars twinkling around it.
It’s the night we met.
A growl rumbles in my chest as I reach up to cup her face in a hand, drawing her in closer. “I love it,” I say, holding her gaze. “And I love you, Chey.”
Her breath hitches, amber eyes widening.
Then her lips part, speaking the greatest words I’ve ever heard.
“I love you too, Iver.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
the parents
CHEYENNE
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Iver asks for what feels like the tenth time since we woke up together in his bed.
“I’m sure,” I answer, just as I have every other time he’s asked. If he wasn’t always so attentive to my needs, I’d suspect that he’s more nervous about this breakfast with his family than I am. Impossible, since I’m so damn nervous right now that the legs of my jeans are damp from how many times I’ve wiped my sweaty palms against them.
He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Ready to head over there, then?”
“Uh huh,” I breathe, pushing up from my stool at the kitchen island and smoothing my hair.
Iver grins as I step toward him, holding out a hand for me to take. And as embarrassing and not cute as it is to hold hands when my own are so damn clammy, I grab on like it’s a lifeline, relying on my mate’s touch to anchor me as we start for the front door of the packhouse.
I’m totally out of my depth here. I have no barometer for how to act around Iver’s parents– I barely remember my own, and I’ve never had to meet anyone else’s before. Hopefully they don’t base everything off first impressions, because nothing says‘hey,I’m sleeping with your son’quite like doing the walk of shame to their house across the street for our morning coffee.
Why did I agree to breakfast, again?We could’ve easily done lunch or dinner. Then again, breakfast seemed like the lowest-pressure meal to share, since it’s the least formal option of the three and has a definitive end. There’s no lingering around when people have jobs and training to get to. It’s no frills, no fuss.
If only it was alsono stress.
