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Before I can look at him, his hands hold either side of my face, tilting my head back.
“You came here today to cover a scar he gave you. What the fuck did he do to you all those years?”
“It’s not the only scar,” I answer honestly. “Most of them you can’t see. They’re buried too deep.” I shiver as his thumb traces over my bottom lip. “But I refuse to let him define who I am. I’m not what happened to me. I’m me. I’m Beth. And that scar only serves as a reminder.” I grip tighter to the material of his T-shirt, feeling like the heat from his skin is the only thing keeping me planted to the ground. “He might have given it to me, but I want you to take it away. I’m trusting you with it.”
His eyes widen before his head falls against mine and we’re no longer standing on the street. I don’t notice how we’re probably blocking the path. I don’t care. It’s only me and him.
I’m safe.
“Okay,” he relents.
Hope flutters in my chest. “Okay? As in you’ll do it?”
Hands on my upper arms, he pulls away, and there’s only protectiveness in the heat of his stare. He nods, curling a finger under my chin. “I refuse to let that bastard have any more power over my girl. Let’s do this.”
∞∞∞
The sting on my ankle fades to a dull throb as Logan completes the last flourish of the intricate design. I didn’t pass out, and I even let go of Archer’s hand so he could return to work.
The hum of the tattoo gun falls silent, replaced by the heavy beat of my heart in my ears.
Swiveling on his stool, Logan takes a moment to study his work, the intensity in his eyes softening as he takes in the sight of the freshly inked daisy on my ankle. A symbol of new beginnings, concealing the painful past beneath it.
“Finished,” he declares, carefully setting aside the tattoo gun and peeling off his gloves.
The reality of what just happened starts to sink in, a wave of emotion crashing over me. My fingers trace the contours of the daisy, the skin tender and sensitive to my touch. It's beautiful, and it's mine.
Logan picked the design, and I was too nervous to ask about it before he started. “Why a daisy?”
He looks at me, surprise etching his face. He hadn't expected me to question his choice, but then, there’s always something unspoken between us, an understanding that runs deeper than words.
“There were daisies on your dress when we first met.”
Ten years.
It’s been ten years and he remembered that there were daisies on my dress.
Speechless, my mouth parts.
“All good?” he asks, his voice rough, but his gaze gentle as he looks at me.
“Better than good,” I reply, unable to tear my gaze away from the new tattoo.
A satisfied smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my face. “I'm glad you like it.”
Before I can respond, he's on his feet, telling me to wait as he goes to fetch something. I watch as he disappears into the back room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the gentle hum of the air conditioning.
A moment later, he reappears, a small jar in hand. “This is some ointment you'll need to apply for the next few days,” he explains, popping the lid open to reveal a thick, white cream. “I'll show you how to take care of it.”
I feel the cool ointment on his fingers as he applies it gently to my skin, his touch surprisingly tender. There's something very personal in the way he treats this moment, as if acknowledging the weight of what this small piece of artwork means to me.
As he finishes, he leans in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to the skin just above the daisy. It's a quiet, intimate gesture that sends a warm flush through my body. When he pulls back, his eyes meet mine, and the world seems to stand still.
The moment is broken by a burst of laughter from the main part of the shop, but for a minute, it was just us, a woman reclaiming her story and a man supporting her through it.
Forty-Three
“Beth, honey,” Ms. Carter calls, waving me over to her booth. She’s Hannah’s teacher. She comes in here every Saturday morning.
