I could have fought and wrestled the sweet guy whose indigo-dyed eyebrows knitted together as he worked. Though part of me wanted to experience the pain, even if the end result would be everlasting.
The whole time, André sat opposite me, patiently waiting for the masterpiece to be finalized, having undergone the same treatment himself.
Even though it's the early hours of the morning, the owner opened his tattoo parlor for a three-thousand-dollar handshake. However, after observing how meticulous and friendly he is, I get the impression he would have thrown open the doors for my husband without a financial sweetener. No matter where we go, people are in awe of André. And lurking deep within the hostile corners of my personality, I feel it too.
He’s beautiful and dangerous.
Mine.
And this seals it.
I stare at my red, raw wedding finger and blink repeatedly. Every time my lashes shutter and reopen, the black detailing is still there.
“Now there’s no questioning who you are to me.” André crooks two fingers, beckoning me to his side. He grabs my wrist, yanks me closer to the padded chair he’s sitting in, and inspects the tiny tattoo under artificial lamplight. “Rule number four—always wear your wedding ring,” he muses. “It’s perfect, don’t you think?”
My brows fly up in response. “It’s certainly a statement…”
He carefully sets my hand on his lap, loosely interlocks his fingers over the top of mine, and takes a photograph using his phone. On my wedding finger, a delicately etched letterQis inked where a wedding band should sit, and a cute black heart sits neatly beneath it to mimic the queen of hearts from a pack of cards. On his matching ring finger, the letterKis tattooed above the same miniature heart.
I won’t openly admit it, but the concept gives me tingles. I hadn’t failed to notice how he’d worn his wedding ring every day; however, the twinkly band blended in with the other rings on his fingers. Now the distinct sentiment behind this particular symbol could never be taken away.
I frown at him as he taps the small screen. “Is that going on your Instagram profile?”
“Not yet. I always delay posting.” He shakes his head. “Otherwise, my enemies could pinpoint my location in seconds. It keeps them on the back foot.”
“So, you’re happy to announce to the world that you won me in a game of cards?” I steal my hand back to study the permanent design closer. “That’s what the whole card theme is, right?”
André pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s exhausted and clears his throat. “Not only does it symbolize your role as my wife, but it signifies who you are to me and the lengths I’ll go to for you.”
My heart oscillates and my stomach goes all gooey. I’d started out resenting him for forcing wedding vows from my throat and now I’m experiencing all sorts of emotions. The tattoo artist joins us, his black gloved hand reaching for mine again.
“I’ll do it.” André snatches the damp gauze from him and proceeds to dab my finger, possessiveness flashing in his focused gaze.
“You going to wrap it up too?” the guy asks, immediately backing off.
André shrugs a shoulder at him. “Your work here is done,mi amigo.”
The bell over the door chimes when Letterman and Reno enter, leaving a few men outside to keep watch.
“Ready to go?” Reno asks. Together they close the distance, expensive track shoes squeaking on the linoleum flooring. “Let me see.”
André doesn’t let go of me; he simply angles my hand around and brings his own in line with it. “La eternidad,” he murmurs.
La eternidad?
“Sure is, parce.” Letterman stuffs a hand into his pocket and nods his head slowly. “I never thought this would happen,” he mutters, his dark brows pulling together.
I watch André’s forehead crease ever so slightly as he considers the statement. “You two are my brothers, blood or not. That will never change. I’ve just added Sinéad to the adventure.” He lowers our united hands and rises.
Broad shoulders pulled back, his height dominates over all of us. “I expect you guys to watch over Sinéad the same way you do for India. She’s familia.”
A shiver runs the length of my spine. Letterman’s gaze cuts to mine where a roguish glint lives in his hazel eyes.
“Welcome to the boys’ club, sweetheart,” he announces in a low voice that sends echoes of acceptance through my whole body.
“She’ll need a gun,” Reno adds, his practical advice noteworthy. “And a bodyguard,” he concludes, glancing over his shoulder to the doorway. “We’ve been here long enough, Dré. Time to move out.”
André nods stiffly, his chest expanding as he inhales deeply. “We all look out for each other. She’s one of us. Got it?”
