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I feel the uneven raised skin of scarifications over every tattoo covering his back. Right underneath the ink. He thought to hide it from everyone. Recognizing that the small scarification of the quote on his ribs misled anyone who saw it to think this was it. No, it was the tip of the iceberg.
I’d felt it before during our crazy hookups, but our time together was so fast and furious that I didn’t register them then. My body knew, though. The skin of my fingertips recognized them, dragging me toward that revelation.
I stare at his bowed back, grazing my fingertips up and down and across the panorama of his entire back. Burned. Scarred. A crisscross of artistic scars—hidden underneath the multitude of color. I want to choke as fury burns through me.
He’d started getting tattoos the year of his brother’s death. They say the first year of grief is the worst, and if his tats and scarifications are any indication, I’d say he’d gone through hell and back.
And he’d hidden it from me.
How many times had he sat beside me in class, his skin inflamed and irritated by the clothing he was wearing? I may not know much about scarification tattoos, but I do know they’re not for those with a low threshold of pain. Why? Because it’s all about the pain!
Jesus, I could slap myself for my stupidity. I would’ve never pushed him with my silly dreams of getting on the soccer team if I’d known the extent of his suffering. I had known he was grieving, of course, but I didn’t understand the depth of what he’d been going through. And he’s still going through it. He’s never going to move forward until he kills the man who took Cristian from him.
And that’s why he wants me to fight him. He could overpower me at any moment, but he wants me to participate in this campaign of pain.
My eyes and nose burn. I bite my lip to stop it from trembling.
I won’t do it.
Marku glances over his shoulder and must see the raw agony on my face.
“No, no, no,” he rushes out, twisting back around and moving his hands frantically as if he doesn’t know where to place them. “No crying. You’re not going to cry over me.”
Facing the enormity of my realization, tears cascade down my face.
“Too late,” I retort, waving at his chest. “Do you even like it? Or did you do it only to hurt yourself?”
He caresses my hair. “I like that you like it. That my tats turn you on.”
Oh, my God. That only makes me feel worse. I’d unwittingly participated in this by being turned on by his tattoos. Made men traditionally carry their clan tat and no other. Even with ink becoming the rage, it didn’t affect the clans. One tattoo and one alone. Marku was a unicorn in that way.
Sweeping aside my own guilt, I return to the question he’d purposely left unanswered. Or rather, he answered it by not answering. Of course, he felt the pain. Of course, he did it for the pain.
Eyeing his ink in a new light, I ask, “Did you get addicted to it or something?”
He sucks his teeth. “No, I’m not a glutton for punishment.”
“I beg to differ. You do this,” I gesture up and down his torso, “and then on top of it, you want me to smack you.”
His eyes get hard. “Because I deserve it.”
I want to shriek at the top of my lungs and tear my hair out. I shove him off me and scoot back until my spine is up against the headboard. He shuffles toward me on his knees and puts his hands on my thighs to keep our connection.
“We need to talk about this, Marku. You should have let me in, really let me know how much you were suffering. Months after his death, I could see that you were grieving, but I thought you’d turned a corner. You clearly had not, and you hid it from me. Then you pushed me away, and I fell for it, but you’d conned me. You deceived me the entire time.”
I shake my head in dismay, guilt bearing down on me from all directions. “I should’ve been there for you, no matter what. I should’ve forced my way in like I’ve always done.” I fling out a hand and gesture to his chest. “Look what’s happened. I failed you and worst of all, you used my words against me.”
His brows gather in confusion, but his jaw tightens. “Never let me hear you spew such nonsense again. You couldn’t have been there for me. I wouldn’t let you. Any time you brought up his death, I’d shut you down, remember? I forced you away in the locker room. I let those boys throw things at you, and then they ran after you for more. Even if I didn’t realize what was going on with that last part, I’d triggered the chain of events. I did that, not you. I’m at fault, not you.”
Fighting tears, I shake my finger at him. “Don’t remind me how gullible I was to fall for that. I should’ve done better…” I trail off into a moment of silence before adding, “In so many ways.”
He cups my cheek. “Don’t ‘should’ yourself. You did exactly right. I was an asshole to you and rejected me just like you should have. I’m the sorry one. I humiliated you in public and pushed you away. I didn’t deserve you. Truth is, I don’t deserve you now. You should divorce me. Teach me a lesson for how I’ve treated you.”
“Shut the hell up,” I snap. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he replies gently.
“Turn on yourself. I’ve just come to realize how I’ve failed you. If you know anything about Romanian women, you know we have our pride, so don’t dismiss me and what I’ve said. It’s only going to make me angrier than I already am.”
