Prologue
The roar of the thunderstorm outside is deafening, intermittent booms of thunder rattling the window panes in their frame. The angry cacophony feels a little heavy-handed, even to a man who believes that the Universe matches energy, but under the circumstances, Ashton can’t spare the mental bandwidth it would take to dwell on that.
Whitaker islaughing.Leaning casually against the sleek paneling of the hallway, his tattoo machine is still dripping color onto the table full of used equipment behind him. He’s effectively blocking the way out, and he’slaughing. At almost six feet exactly, Whitaker is scarcely two inches shorter than Ashton, but right now his presence feels giant, and despite his own more muscular stature, Ashton feelssmall.
Licking dry lips, Ashton’s gaze darts briefly over to that table and the machine laying placidly on its side across the instrument tray, its needle pointed firmly in his direction. It’s silent, rendered powerless at the moment, but that doesn’t matter. Motionless and harmless though it currently may be, the once-familiar apparatus neverthelessfeelslike a weapon.
Like a threat.
Half-naked and alone on this emotional rollercoaster, Ashton has never been more vulnerable, and it’s distressing.
He’s sweating. Droplets gather on his forehead, one breaking away to track down over his temple and cheek as a lock of damp, dark hair falls into his line of vision. Against his thighs, both of his hands flex with rage and despair, blood boiling in his veins. Pain and anger throb in the space behind his eyes and heat radiates in waves from his face, undoubtedly flushed red with humiliation. He can’t even bring himself to stare into the mirror and fully absorb what’s been done to him—this is truly his own version of hell.
“Oh, come off it, Ashes. I’ll fix it up then, if you’re going to be so pissy.” Whitaker’s words don’t match his tone, even discounting the sneery English accent, and the laugh that follows his would-be promise lays bare his lack of sincerity. Even his demeanor, the casual way he pushes a palm through his floppy, platinum-blonde hair or the way his manicured nails tap his chin feels dismissive, irreverent. “It’s veryyou,though, you have to admit.”
A dramatic boom shakes the bones of the shop as a bolt of lightning snaps outside, casting a brief, eerie glow across Whitaker’s face, courtesy of the giant windows facing the street. His gray eyes flash dangerously. The sight sends a chill down Ashton’s spine, making his pulse race and turning him breathless as he struggles to cope with reality. Ashton’s mind races right along with his heart as various pieces of the puzzle continue falling into place.
Everything suddenly makes so muchsense—the waiting until no one else was present, Whitaker refusing to allow him to check on the progress, and of course, this strange, late-night session that was never aboutclientsand preserving business hours in the first place.
Ashton should’ve known. He should’veguessed.
He tries to make himself look into the mirror. To digest the situation, to see thatheis still there, buried underneath the problem. He manages to fixate briefly on the familiar planes of his chest, the bulky curve of his thighs, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the messy shock of dark hair atop his head. To ground himself in his own familiar blue eyes.
He tries to look for long enough to at least kill the magic, to settle the enchanted ink—to put the charmawayso that it isn’t justout there,adding fuel to Whitaker’s entertained fire. It’s painful to try, though, and he finds himself frozen in place.
Hellis definitely the right word. Being forced to confront his worst apparent mistakesandhis misplaced trust in this way is overwhelming, it’s too much. Ashton’s chest feels horrifically tight as the edges of the mangled design catch his peripheral vision, and he squeezes his eyes shut so as not to see. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to harness the magic for himself, to contain the charm, and to shut it down.
Exhale,he tells himself, once it’s over.Breathe. In and out. Just get out.
Blinking back tears, Ashton stares up at the ugly popcorn ceiling for a handful of seconds, focusing on the rumble of thunder and the downpour of rain in order to center himself.
“Ashes, darling, just remember—”
He moves. Without glancing Whitaker’s way or acknowledging his presence at all, Ashton brushes past to yank his discarded t-shirt over his head and grabs his coat from the rack. He slings his work bag over his shoulder, picks up the book carefully stashed beneath it, and pulls the front door open, preparing to brave the storm. The bells jingle cheerfully above his head.
“You asked for this.”
Clenching his jaw, Ashton is instantly soaked as he steps outside, head tucked down against the unrelenting rain. His book is folded into his jacket in order to protect the pages, and that’s enough for now. He doesn’t think about where he’s going, and he doesn’t look back.
?
Chapter 1
One Year Later
The twelfth annual “Enchanted Ink” Tattoo Convention has been in full swing for hours, but Ashton has yet to venture inside. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what he’ll find there: a fairly standard convention space, divided using equally standard black curtains hanging from predictable portable frames creating both booths and stations offering displays that areanythingbut ordinary. Various tattoo artists and their work, in the flesh—the best of the best, by both factandopinion.
In addition to the booths, there are always several centralized showcase stands, right in the middle of all the hustle and bustle. Elevated platforms where human works of art strip down to their underwear and pose, proudly displaying full-body and wildly colorful tattoos boasting some of the most intricate and beautiful imagery that probably exists in the entire inked world.
This particular convention admits artists by invitation only, and while Ashton isn’t technically here to work this year, it’s an event he’s enjoyed immensely in the past. It’s bittersweet—perhaps a touch heavy on thebitter—hovering on the outskirts, wondering whether he’ll ever find himself behind a booth and promoting his work again. While that remains to be seen, there’s plenty here to worry about in the meantime.
The thought of Whitaker working somewhere inside the building behind him crosses Ashton’s mind and makes him grimace. He can practically feel the tentative nerve he’s so painstakingly gathered, the courage tofinallywander through the front door, trickling away like water through a sieve.
Again.
Good thing it’s a nice day out, today. Sixty-eight degrees and sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and Ashton brought a book. He can wait. The courage to go inside will come.
Probably.
