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“Malice didn’t do these,” I finally say. “Did he?”
“No,” he acknowledges. “He didn’t.”
I reach out like I’m going to touch one of the older ones, but then stop with my hand hovering near his upper arm. He’s never touched me, and I’ve never touched him. I’m not entirely sure whether that was purposeful on his part or just coincidental, but I’m vividly aware that it’s a line we haven’t crossed. So instead of trailing my fingers over faded ink, I just look at it.
It was maybe once a cross or some kind of symbol, but now it looks like a faded bruise, almost, dark and splotchy against Victor’s skin. It was definitely done by an amateur, not a professional tattoo artist.
“Didyoudo these ones?” I ask quietly, tilting my head up to look at Vic.
He gazes down at me for a second, then shakes his head.
“My father gave them to me,” he says. “A long time ago.”
There’s no emotion in his voice, but I can sense the heaviness in the words anyway. Everything that has to do with their dad seems steeped in hurt and violence.
Malice told me that their dad was trying to shape Victor into a perfect warrior—his second in command—and that he basically tortured him to make him strong enough for it. I know there’s more to the story than that, things that probably only Victor could tell me about what he experienced at his father’s hands.
I’m not sure he ever will though.
All I’ve gotten from him is the vague sense that someone he loved hurt him, and I wonder what the tattoos were supposed to symbolize. Were they used to cause more pain? To brand him so that he couldn’t forget who he belonged to and was supposed to be working for?
I don’t know, but I suddenly hate this man I’ve never met, and I find myself viciously glad that the brothers killed him. Malice was right. He did deserve it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding Victor’s gaze.
I’m not sure if he knows what Malice told me, and I almost feel bad that I know this thing about him that he didn’t tell me himself, but then I remember that he knows a lot about me that I didn’t tell him either. So maybe it doesn’t matter.
He nods, his face unreadable as his eyes cut away from me.
“Our dad left his mark in a lot of ways,” Ransom says, breaking the heavy silence. “Maybe that’s why we all got tattoos for our mom. To try to make sure she’d left her mark too.”
He looks down at the flower on his arm, and I smile at the idea of that. It’s clear she did leave her mark on them, with the way they wanted to avenge her death so fiercely, and Malice being willing to go to jail for killing their father to make sure she didn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“When did you start tattooing?” I ask, settling back on the couch and glancing over at Malice.
“Not seriously until I was in prison,” he replies. “I fucked around as a kid since other kids were doing it, but that was different. Most of these”—he lifts the arm that doesn’t have the growing tattoo on it—“I got when I was locked up. Either from other people or when I was learning to do them myself.”
“What about you?” Ransom arches a brow at me. “Do you have any ink you’re not showing us?”
I glance at Victor, because I know with his cameras in my apartment, he’s seen me naked. Hell, Ransom has probably seen enough of me at this point to know that I don’t have anything I’m trying to hide, and Malice has too. Just the scars, and those are nothing like the ink each of these men wear.
“No.” I shake my head. “You know I don’t. I’ve never really considered getting one before. And even if I had, I’m not sure I would’ve been brave enough to do it.”
Malice makes a noise in his throat, and when my gaze darts to him, he’s looking at me with something gleaming in his stormy eyes. Without saying a word, he walks out of the room, heading toward the garage. When he comes back, he has his tattoo gun and the equipment to go with it.
My eyes widen, my heart starting to race. “What’s that for?”
Malice strides across the living room, coming to a stop in front of the couch where I’m sitting. He puts rough fingers under my chin, tipping my face up so I’m looking right at him. There’s a dark look in his eyes, possessive and dominant and hungry.
“I want to mark you,” he says, his voice low. “I want to put a tattoo on you.”
My stomach flips over.
I wasn’t kidding about not thinking I was brave enough. The good girl that I spent so long trying to be would say no. She wouldn’t have guts to get a tattoo, let alone to have this man do it.
But… I don’t want to say no.
I want what he’s offering. I want him to mark me, and I want to feel the pain and intensity of it.
