Page 88 of What We Burn

Eli’s jaw sets. “If it’s a step toward earning her back, yes.”

“You’re not worried what she’ll choose?”

“She can tattoo a dick and balls on me if that’s what it takes.”

Inside, the place smells like antiseptic and green soap. Flash art covers the walls. A woman in her twenties with a shaved undercut and a sleeve of botanical tattoos comes out from the back, takes one look at the five of us crowding her doorway, and raises an eyebrow.

“Appointment?”

“Nope,” Sage says, swaying.

The artist—RAVEN, says the tag on her chest—looks Sage up and down. “We don’t tattoo drunk people.”

“It’s not for me.” Sage jerks a thumb at Eli. “Him. But I’m designing it. He doesn’t get to see it till it’s done.”

Raven looks at Eli. “Is this a punishment?”

“It’s a trust exercise.”

“Same thing.” Raven shrugs. “You sober, big guy? Consenting?”

Eli nods.

“Then it’s your skin.” She waves us toward the back. “Come on.”

Sage pulls Raven aside to the counter, and they bend over a sheet of paper together, Sage sketching and whispering, Raven nodding, snorting once. Eli waits across the room with the face of a man who’s made peace with the firing squad.

“You’re gonna be fine,” I tell him.

“She’s drunk.”

“She’s inspired. Big difference.”

He exhales through his nose.

“That’s it!” Sage stage-whispers, jabbing the paper. “That one.”

Raven nods. “Cute. Let’s go.”

Eli peels his shirt off, and Sage’s whole face changes when she sees his bare back—the playfulness still there, but there’s warmth and hunger underneath it. She trails one finger down his spine and he goes rigid.

“Here,” she tells Raven, flattening her palm between his shoulder blades. “About this big.”

“Easy.” Raven preps the area and sets the stencil. Then she gets to work.

Eli lies facedown on the table. Sage settles on the stool by his head, her hand resting on his nape. Holden leans on the wall. Knox fills the doorway. I hop up on the counter by the sink and crane to see the stencil.

A cage. A birdcage, the bars broken open on one side, bent outward like something has forced its way through. And rising up out of the wreckage⁠—

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“That’s . . . interesting.”

“Milo,” Eli says, not lifting his head. “What does that even mean?”

The needle starts. Raven lays the first lines—the broken cage, the buckled bars, and then the shape climbing out of it, low and hunched and clawed.

“It means . . . ” I press my lips together and tilt my head, searching for the right words.