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A beast barreled through the smoke, dispersing it into the ether. Horns twisted from its temples. Leathery wings spanned six feet across on both sides of a muscular body. Claws that resembled a velociraptor. Hooves for feet. Cracked, blackened skin, threaded with veins made of lava. It was terrifying.
She didn’t run, didn’t scream, even though for the first time fear locked her knees. The beast came at her, red eyes bleeding, muscles bulging, leather kilt barely covering his lower half.
His. Yes, because it was male.
“It’s just a dream. Just a dream,” Eden chanted as she quickly backtracked. The beast, the aberration, the thing born from Hell, kept pace, shortening the distance between them. She knew him, just like she knew the outline the beast destroyed.
“Mine!” the beast bellowed.
“Never!” she screamed.
“Done!”
The buzzing ended and the jarring silence yanked Eden awake.
“Whew. The outline is done! Boom. Mic drop.” Harriet wheeled away and returned with a spray bottle and paper towels.
The antiseptic spray stung, then soothed the burn, and the residual of the dream scratching her brain. It was just a dream.
Saddened, Eden pushed off the bench, careful to keep the sheet covering her breasts. Harriet’s workspace wasn’t private. She didn’t own the shop, just rented a booth from the asshole owner. Her back was numb and the rest of her ached from being in the same position for hours, but she felt good. She always did after a session with Harriet’s tattoo gun.
Harriet handed Eden a mirror for her to see the work. She brushed her blond hair off her shoulder for an unobstructed view. A trellis of thorny flowers framed her back, leaving the middle for... Well, she had a thing for religious artifacts: a cross, a dream catcher, an ankh, Star of David, Ouroboros, Ying and Yang. She’d always found them fascinating and now they were a part of her permanently.
With the outline completed, once she healed, Harriet would add the color and turn it into a work of art.
“Damn. As always. It’s perfect. I love it, Harry.” Eden gushed at her bestie.
“Of course, you do.” Harry preened.
“That’s fucking hot.” Kris leaned against the doorjamb. Arms folded across his chest, showing off his pecs. Hair heavily gelled and slicked back, showing off his once rugged features. Too many cigarettes, too much booze, and too many late nights thinking he was invincible had caught up with him. He was only forty, but he looked sixty, and thought he was still twenty.
“But not as hot as you, Eden.”
The way he looked at her... Ew. She wanted a bath.
“Thanks.”
“Even with your crazy eyes.” He grinned. More like leered.
Her eyes always drew attention. Right one blue. The left one black. Heterochromia iridium was the clinical term. When she was little, children refused to play with her. They thought she was weird until puberty hit, then it was erotic. An old ladyhadcalled her a witch and made the sign of the cross. So many times, shehad beentempted to wear contacts.To changeherself to conform to someone else’s opinion, wasn’tofher. Would never be her.
Harry spread some gel on the area and wrapped Eden’s back in plastic. All under Kris’s rummy eyes. Eden couldn’t wait until Harriet bought the shop from him.
“Done,” Harry said, and Eden hauled her shirt on. “You know the drill.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Not my first tat.” They bumped fists. “See you at home.”
Kris didn’t move. A decent human being, the owner of the shop, should’ve moved out of the way of a paying customer. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this, the leering, skeevy stare. No wonder his clients had dried up, and the shop was failing.
It was either hug the doorframe or brush against his body. Or punch him in the throat and knee his balls.
The temptation killed her. Not just to hit him, but to destroy him. To keep punching, kicking, stomping until he was a bloody mess at her feet.
That would be wrong, right? She understood right from wrong. Not just in principle, but in her soul.
So instead of getting bloody, because let’s be real, her five foot ten, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound ass had zero chance of beating anyone. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
Snort. At twenty, she had two sexual experiences. The first in the back of a movie theater when she was sixteen. The second when she was eighteen, a one-night stand she wasn’t proud of. There were other opportunities. There wasn’t a shortage of men asking her out. She lacked motivation. No one made her wet enough to peel off her clothes and spread her legs. No one made her feel anything.
