“Dude,” Trey grins wide.
Sam just nods, slow and knowing. “About damn time.”
The buzz of the machine starts again, the sting grounding me. I think about her hand in mine, her voice in my ear. This isn’t just a tattoo. It’s a vow in ink.
Sam goes next. Rolls up his sleeve, no hesitation. “One cross,” he tells the artist. “Right ring finger.”
The guy nods. “Subtle.”
“Intentional,” Sam replies. No one pushes him for more.
Chace stands with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. After a beat, he lifts his hands in surrender, “Like I said, I’m out. If I get another tattoo, my mother dearest is gonna call in the family’s fixer and have me disappeared.”
“I want to say you’re joking,” Trey mutters, “But I genuinely can’t tell if you’re messing with us or not. So, instead I’ll just say—you’d think the mafia would be more lenient about tattoos,”
“Some, not all.” Chace replies cooly. “My family has strict beliefs about the sanctity of flesh.”
“That actually makes sense to me,” Sam chimes in. “My body is my temple.”
“I am so happy to disappoint your family,” Trey deadpans.
Chace just shakes his head, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just make sure you steer clear of my uncle if he’s ever around. He’s in charge of cleanup. And violations of the Corpus.” His voice goes flat, unreadable.
Trey raises a brow. “Yeah, no. I still have no fucking clue if you’re kidding.”
And honestly, I’m with him. One hundred percent. Chace rarely opens up about this kind of shit.
“Probably for the best,” Chace says with a sigh.
By the time we’re done, we’re inked, sore, and strangely lighter.
Trey lift’s his shirt in front of the mirror and grins. “Cupid’s Angel,” he says proudly. “Right under the ribs. Sexy as hell.”
“You look like a guy who sends mixed signals on purpose,” Sam mutters.
“I am a mixed signal,” Trey smirks.
Chace groans.
I glance down at my chest—at her name now etched into my skin forever. The flesh is red and raw, but the meaning behind it? Solid. Permanent. This is the start of everything.
We push through the tent’s door and step back into the night. The air is cooler now, the music from inside just a distant thrum behind us. We walk side by side, the four of us—shoulder to shoulder, ride or die.
My phone chimes in my pocket.
Ding.
Ding.
It buzzes again. And again.
Trey’s phone lights up. So does Sam’s. Then Chace’s.
All of us freeze mid-step as our phones start going off like sirens. My screen lights up, vibrating nonstop now. I glance down.
Phil.
Our manager.
