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“Hey, these weren’t done by me.” Tiberius pats his arm affectionately. That loyal sheen in his eyes can only mean he’s talking about one person.
Antony.
My beloved cousin came home late last night, saw Ms. Drysdale asleep in Tiberius’ arms on the sofa, shot me a murderous look, and went straight to his room and slammed the door. When I dragged my ass out of bed this morning, he’d already left for the club. I guess we’re not talking about it, then.
It doesn’t matter what Antony thinks, I remind myself. After tonight, he’s not the one in charge of things. I am.
I grit my teeth as the needle bites into my skin. It kind of does feel like a cat scratch – one long-ass cat scratch that will not end. My fingers squeeze Gabriel’s hand so tight he yelps in protest.
“How did you get so many?” I run my fingers over his bare chest, admiring the hours of agony that must’ve gone into his ink.
He shrugs. “I like the pain.”
“Freak.”
“You love it,” he grins, but his smile is lopsided. There’s a faraway look in his eyes. “I like that my body can tell a story, the same way my music can. Each one of these has a meaning, a story. If I want to be reminded of something in my life, all I have to do is look down.”
I’m not the only one getting a tattoo today. I did this to protect my family, but my protection will only extend so far as Nero and Constantine acknowledge me. I need to mark my family as mine so that every member of the criminal underworld knows not to mess with them. Gabriel’s first up – he doesn’t have any space left around his wrists, so he’s having the sword and laurel on the side of his neck, opposite the butterflies.
He does seem to enjoy the pain, grinning wickedly while Tiberius drags the tattoo gun over his skin. Noah goes next, and he seems to see it as a personal challenge not to move a muscle while Tiberius scrawls out the design. Ms. Drysdale – sorry, Madeline, I’ve got to get used to using her first name – lets out a little squeal when the needle touches her skin. Tiberius whispers something in her ear, and she flushes beet red and doesn’t utter another sound. When it’s George’s turn, she leaps into the chair and proffers the inside of her forearm.
“I’m not the only one who’s a little deviant,” Gabe teases her. George blushes, but she doesn’t deny it.
Finally, it’s Eli’s turn. He frowns at Tiberius. “Please, make it really tiny and further up my arm, so I can cover it with a shirt sleeve if I have to.”
“Having second thoughts?” I mean it to tease, but it comes out wheedling. I’m still a little wary of him after he left the other day. He literally got down on his knees and begged for forgiveness, which is definitely something I’ll continue to encourage, but I still worry that one day, the chaos and bloodshed will become too much for my Golden Boy.
Eli’s eyes meet mine. “About letting this creep stick a needle into my wrist? Definitely. About being with you? Never.”
The finality of his words sloughs away my unease. I squeeze his arm.
Tiberius patches us up and gives us a lecture about caring for our new ink. I know we’re supposed to keep the tattoos covered for at least a few days, but we don’t have that luxury. My first public appearance is tonight, and I need to wear my legacy for everyone to see.
On the penultimate night of Saturnalia, the Triumvirate would appear together at an exclusive party for all those who work for us. The three Imperators announce any decisions they’ve made during their council, and sometimes offer up matters for a vote. It’s also the only time soldiers and other members of the underworld might ask us for favors.
I’d attended only one of these events before, as part of a gymnastics troupe performing at an old theatre in Tartarus Oaks. The guests view the entertainment and the waiters as extensions of the furniture, which allowed me to observe and learn about them as Daddy taught me. What I observed was mostly an excess of drinking and an orgy in the orchestra pit. Quite the sight for an eight-year-old.
Tonight, the festivities are in my honor. “How do we look?” Gabriel leans in, showing off the bleeding edges of his tattoo. It’s perfect for him – we’ve bled over each other in so many ways.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. What is it about these guys that make me constantly want to turn on the waterworks? All the terrible things that have happened to me – Brutus’ assault, losing my parents, waking up in my grave, living alone for four years, nearly being raped by Alec, being shot at repeatedly, being forced to marry Nero and Constantine… none of that made me lose my shit.
But my three boyfriends wearing the August seal? It does me in. They have my back, no matter what. I turn away and suck in a breath, trying to get control of my emotions. When I look back they’re all leaning forward, watching me.
The protector. The fallen angel. The dark mirror.
Mine.
Tiberius leads us out to the road where Antony waits, smoking a cigar as he leans against the hood of a sleek limo kitted out in tinted, bulletproof glass. I walk up to him and whip the cigar from his fingers, dropping it on the pavement and crushing it with my heel.
“Smoking will kill you.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and amusement. “You and your insane boyfriend posse will get the job done way before the lung cancer kicks in.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”
Antony rolls up his sleeve. I gasp at his tattoo. He already wears the August seal, but Tiberius has enclosed it in a circlet that matches my homecoming crown. Inside are the Latin words, Et in morte fidelitas.
Even in death, loyalty remains.
