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The side of his mouth tips up. “It’s more than fucking four.”
I clench my jaw. “I’m going to kill you.”
Dominic takes a step back. “Many have tried.”
I look back down at my hand.
It’s sore.
And having my lying husband’s name tattooed so many times on my body is tacky.
And it’s absolutely the most insane thing I could possibly think of someone doing to someone else.
And I hate it.
I do.
I would never do something like this.
But—and I can hardly even believe I’m thinking this—I’ve always wanted a tattoo. I’m just too frugal. And I’m not decisive enough. And I never wanted to deal with the pain.
The neon red flag finally unfurls in the center of my brain.
“Wait…” I lift my gaze to my husband.
Dom stops halfway to the door, his back to me. “What?”
“How did you even do this? Did you drug me again?”
Dominic turns to face me. “I wasn’t going to let you feel the pain.”
My outraged retort withers in my throat.
What sort of answer is that?
I press my fingertips into my temples. “I can’t believe I have to say this,” I grumble. “You can’t drug me again. That can’t be healthy.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Great. The man I married knows how to drug people. How comforting.
“And you can’t tattoo me again,” I tell him.
“I don’t have any plans to do either.”
My hands drop. “Dom, that’s not an answer.”
“I prefer you calling me Dominic.”
“I prefer you when you aren’t drugging me and scratching your name into my skin.”
Dominic’s jaw ticks, then he tries to change the topic. “I moved your clothes into the closet.”
“Dom.” I stomp my bare foot. “I don’t want your name tattooed on my finger.”
“Little late for that, Angel.” He turns and heads for the door. “Go get ready. And put on something black.”
“Dom—”
