Prologue
AMBER
The shop smellsof something sweet, like soap. The buzzing from the gun in the corner is a high-pitched hum that vibrates through the vinyl of my chair. I can feel it even with my heart pounding against my ribs.
“Sorry about the confusion out front,” the man says. “My new assistant forgot to tell you that all our services are appointment based.”
I look up from my hands, clenched in my lap. He’s not what I expected. Not the wiry, ink-sleeved hipster from the website.
This man has a buzzcut that highlights the sharp line of his jaw and a pair of startling blue eyes. Tattoos, a tapestry of geometric shapes and dark black lines, climb up his throat and disappear behind his ear.
“Oh, no,” I breathe, a knot of disappointment tightening in my stomach. “Does that mean I can’t get a tattoo today?”
A small smile touches his lips, softening his intense features. “Oh, you’re definitely getting a tattoo. You’ve already waited for half an hour, it’s the least we can do. I’m Dax, by the way.”
“Amber.”
“Are you ready, Amber?” His gaze is direct, not intrusive, but assessing.
I nod, my throat too tight to form more words.
He looks intense as he sterilizes the surface and then explains the tattooing process. I watch as he prepares the transfer paper, his movements precise and confident.
“You sure about this?” he asks, glancing at the design I brought in—a small, detailed phoenix, its wings tipped in flame.
I nod, my throat too tight to form words.
Am I sure?
I think about all the times I’ve run from pain, all the times I’ve flinched from a raised hand or a sharp word.
I think about Norah, wrapped up in her pack right now, on the romantic date Jude planned to celebrate her pregnancy. They’re probably at that cozy cabin on Fernbridge Trail. She’s safe. She’s loved.
And Maisie… my Maisie is at school, her red glasses perched on her nose as she learns fractions and paints pictures of unicorns with Frida, her toy rabbit, tucked into her backpack.
She’s safe, too. For the first time in a long time, my daughter is truly safe. And this is just for me.
So, yes, I’m sure.
Dax cleans the skin on my forearm, the inside of my left wrist. The cool wipe makes me shiver. He positions the stencil, and I press my eyes shut.
The needle starts its high-pitched whine again, closer this time.
Then, the first touch. A stinging bite, like a hundred hornets all in one spot. My breath catches, but I don’t pull away.
My fingers on my right hand drift to the tiny, pale scar on my left wrist. It’s barely visible, a faint white line beneath the stencil.
Luke broke it. He grabbed my arm too hard during a fight, a fight I can’t even really remember now. I just remember the sound—a sickening crack—and the blinding, white-hot pain that shot up my arm.
He cried after. He held an ice pack to my swelling wrist and told me how sorry he was, how much he loved me, how clumsy he was.
I believed him. That was the worst part.
Tears well in my eyes, hot and sudden. They trace paths down my temples, into my hair. I’m not crying from the sting of the needle.
I’m crying for the girl who let a man break her bones and call it love. I’m crying for the baby I lost, the one who never got a chance to feel safe.
The needle moves over my skin, a steady, grinding pressure as it lays down the ink, a permanent promise over a temporary pain.
