"Really?" The word comes out breathier than I intended. "I'd love to see your shop." Excitement bubbles through me at the prospect.
Witnessing my enthusiasm, Hawk’s face splits into a huge smile that nearly stops my heart. I thought he was hot before with his menacing gaze and hard scowl. With his face relaxed, awide grin wrinkling the corners of his eyes and showing off his straight, white teeth, he’s breathtakingly handsome.
“It’s settled then. Go get yourself ready.” He stands, gathering our empty plates. "Your sweater from last night is toast. But I washed your jeans. You can grab one of my shirts from the dresser if you want."
I turn to go get ready, but as I reach the door to the bedroom, his voice stops me. “Hey.”
I look back over my shoulder. His gaze is warm and heated in a way that makes my pulse race.
"You’re not a bother, little sparrow. Not at all.”
Heat crawls up my neck into my cheeks. I’m not sure what to say, so I simply nod and hurry off to the bedroom with his words echoing in my mind.
I dig through Hawk’s dresser, eventually selecting a faded black t-shirt with a vintage motorcycle printed on the front. It swallows me whole, hanging nearly to my knees, but when I roll up the sleeves and tie a knot at my waist, it looks almost fashionable.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I touch the bruises on my face. They're turning a sickly yellow-purple, but they'll fade. Unfortunately, I don’t have any makeup to hide them. I pull my curls into a messy bun and borrow a bit of toothpaste, using my finger as a makeshift toothbrush.
My thoughts drift to Hawk.Little sparrow. I love that he called me that. Why couldn’t I be engaged to a man like Hawk? What would it feel like to be desired, to be wanted, by a man like him?
Everything about him screams danger, and I have no doubt that under the right circumstances he’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, yet he took me in—me, a drowned rat of a girl who trespassed on his property and broke into his home—and I’ve never felt safer than I did sleeping under his roof. Evenat breakfast, when he sensed my discomfort, he changed the subject.
I trace my lips with my fingertip. What would it be like to kiss him? To feel those full lips against mine?
I shake my head at my ridiculous fantasy. A man like Hawk—worldly, strong, dangerous—would not be kissing a shy, introverted nobody. He’s like those heroes in romance novels or action movies. The kind who saves the world and gets the girl—a girl who is not plain and inexperienced like I am.
Still, I can't help wondering.
Twenty minutes later, clutching the strap of my backpack, I try (unsuccessfully) to not stare at his broad back or his tight buns that are now encased in faded denim as we descend the external staircase to the tattoo shop. Reaper’s Ink, the sign proclaims in gothic lettering. Hawk unlocks the door, flipping on lights as we enter.
"Welcome to my shop,” he says with a sweep of his arm.
The space is nothing like I expect. Instead of dark and intimidating, it's bright and clean. A black and white checkered floor gleams beneath overhead track lighting. The walls are covered in framed flash art—hundreds of tattoo designs showcasing every style imaginable.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning in a slow circle, dropping my backpack near the front counter. “This is amazing.”
"Let me show you around." Hawk's hand settling at the small of my back sends tingles down my spine and to my toes as he guides me through the shop.
He points out the reception area, the private rooms where artists work, and finally leads me to his own station in the back. His walls are covered with photographs of completed tattoos—intricate sleeves, detailed portraits, stunning designs, all rendered on human skin.
"You did all these?" I step closer, studying a photorealistic eagle spanning someone's entire back.
“Yep.” There's pride in his voice, not arrogance.
"They're incredible." I reach out, tracing the outline of a wolf design without touching the photo. "The detail is unbelievable."
"Ever thought about tattooing?" He leans against the wall, watching me.
I laugh. "Me? No, I've never even had a tattoo."
"I got a confession to make." He scratches his jaw while I wait in silence, nervously wondering what he could possibly be about to say. "I looked through your sketchbook last night. While you were in the shower."
"Oh." I'm not sure how to respond. I’m a little embarrassed. The man clearly has extreme talent. I wonder what he thought of my drawings.
"You're incredible, Aria." His voice is low, intense. "Better than any artist who's ever worked for me. Your eye for detail, the way you capture emotion..." He shakes his head. “You have a rare talent."
My chest expands with warmth. No one has complimented my art like that—like it matters, like it's something special. Uncle Vincent called it a waste of time, but he did let me start art school last month. Marco said “doodling,” as he called it, was fine as a hobby, but I’d have to quit those art classes once we were married. So I could stay home and take care of him.
"Thank you," I whisper, unable to look away from Hawk's golden-amber gaze.
