Page 653 of End Game

Ronan pauses without asking.

The line at her hip settles into a cleaner angle.

He studies it for a second. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

Drake says nothing.

That feels better than praise.

More of Cami's weight settles into the rope, one foot still planted firmly beneath her while the other barely carries anything. The change pulls the lines into sharper definition across her body, and my brain does what it always does when something moves from theory into shape.

It starts drawing.

Not on paper—obviously.

Just there, behind my eyes.

Her body through the center of the pattern. The rope following curves, redirecting weight, creating lines that are beautiful because they're functional instead of despite it.

It scratches the same part of my brain as tattooing.

People sometimes think tattooing is drawing on skin.

It isn't.

Skin moves. Bodies curve. Muscles shift under you. A design that looks perfect flat can turn into something awful the second it wraps around a shoulder or hip.

Rope is different, but not as different as I expected.

Cami exhales, and the right side of her torso shifts almost imperceptibly.

Ronan sees it at the same time I do. “Color?”

“Green.”

“Anything pulling?”

“Right side of my ribs feels tighter now.”

My eyes follow the line automatically.

Ronan's hand moves toward it, then stops.

“Not the rope,” he says.

I look at Cami's shoulder.

Her posture changed.

“She's rotating.”

“Yeah.”

I take more of her weight while Ronan adjusts her position rather than the rope itself.

The difference is immediate.