Page 62 of Shadow Secrets
“Done,” she said. “You can look and I’ll wrap it.”
She cleaned the skin and wiped the excess ink. Handed him a small mirror.
He angled the mirror and studied it.
The lynx crouched across his ribs, low and ready. Her hand in it was everywhere—the confident lines, the negative-space tricks, the way the symbols she’d woven through the animal’s body told a story only the two of them could read. Vigilance. Spotting what other people miss. Solitary, sharp-eyed, patient. All of it true.
And underneath the animal, under the ink, invisible now except when he angled the light right—the scar Penn’s bullet had left, folded into something new.
It was perfect. He lowered the mirror.
She was watching him, her hand still in the glove, a small crease between her brows—the artist’s anxiety waiting for the client’s verdict. She had a spot of ink on her cheek. Her hair was coming out of the bandana.
He’d saved her two weeks ago, and she was here leaning against her tattoo station with her bandaged shoulder and her green-apple shampoo and her entire bright, stubborn, unguarded face.
“Do you like it?” she asked finally.
“It’s perfect.”
Her smile started to form. Then she caught something in his face, in his voice, in the way his eyes stayed on hers instead of moving back to the mirror. The smile faltered. Her brown eyes searched his. The crease between her brows deepened. “Oh.” Her voice was soft. “Oh, you aren’t talking about the ink.”
“No. I’m talking about you. You’re perfect.”
She peeled off the glove, wiped her hands on a towel without looking at them, and took a small, steadying breath. “I love you, Seb.”
It was the new nickname she’d started using sometime around day three in the hospital. Not Sebastian. Not Lynx. Seb—the one his mother had used when he was a boy, the one Charlotte still used. It was the one he hadn’t let anyone else call him in almost twenty years. Sutton had picked it up from a phone call with his mom that first morning in the recovery room, tried it on for size, and kept it. The first time she’d said it, he’d felt a crack open somewhere behind his sternum. Now he heard it, and it was home.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table. The new ink pulled a little at the skin, still raw. He didn’t care. He reached for her.
She stepped between his knees without hesitation.
He cupped the back of her neck, pulled her close, and nuzzled her throat, the smell of her settling into his chest like the only air he’d ever wanted to breathe. “Good thing, since I’m your bodyguard for life, Ink.”
She laughed—soft, surprised, the good laugh. Her hand came up to his chest, flattened over his heart. She kissed him.
When he pulled back, her forehead stayed pressed to his. “I love you, too, Sutton. I’ve never looked forward to the future more than I do right now.”
“You just want free ink and pancakes.”
“Those are in the top five reasons, sure.”
“The top five.”
“All right, top three.”
She shook her head, grinning, her eyes wet. Her hand pressed harder against his chest.
“I’ve already got my next design picked out,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
He covered her hand with his. Pressed her palm flat over the place she was already touching—the space directly above his heart. The place a person put their hand when they were making a vow, saying a pledge, promising something they intended to mean for the rest of their life.
“The portrait Penn drew of you,” he said. “The one in the third sketchbook. I want you to ink it right here. If you’re okay with that.”
