Inked Destiny (26 page)

“Tattoo me as you have Cathal,” he repeated, ducking his head to nuzzle along the length of her neck.

The design was there in Etaín’s mind, identical to Cathal’s except in color and location, and she shivered, unsure whether the emotion surging through her was anticipation or trepidation. “Are you asking me? Or calling in the promise Cathal made on my behalf?”

His lips returned to hers in a slow trail of kisses that had her head tilting backward in order to give him greater, deeper access. “I’m asking.” Though the thrust of his tongue and hard press of his lips were hungry and demanding, pouring liquid fire into her belly to sink lower and become the slick evidence of desire.

“Somebody open the damn door, it’s getting to be a sauna in here,” Jamaal yelled, making Etaín laugh and end the kiss.

“Oh no, no, no,” Derrick said, and she could see him fanning himself at his workstation. “I for one am enjoying myself.”

Bryce made a motion toward the privacy screens. “The shop isn’t licensed for porn. You want to take this out of sight?”

Jamaal snorted. “Better crank up the music so we won’t be hearing what’s going on back there. Imagining it is bad enough.”

“Shall I send Myk for your kit? Or do you have what you need here?” Eamon asked, smiling at the banter around them.

“You’re serious about doing this?”

“Absolutely. I thought you might prefer to do it here, but if I’m mistaken…”

She wavered, torn, fear nearly getting the upper hand. Her surety about the design and it’s placement, the same confidence she’d always felt and what had turned out to be foresight when it came to Cathal, slammed hard and fast against the possibility she was somehow being influenced by the Dragon.

This is what it feels like to be mind-fucked.
And with sudden insight she understood it would never end if she didn’t take control. Didn’t decide and move on, learning through trial and error and consequence rather than being paralyzed by doubt.

Doubt had never been a problem for her before. She wouldn’t let it continue to plague her.

“No. Send Myk for my kit.”

She guided Eamon to the area set aside for tattoos and piercings done on breasts, buttocks, and genitals, or that risked flashing those body parts.

Seconds later Adele blasted through the room speakers a couple of decibels louder than usual, Jamaal’s laughter saying he was making good on his comment to block out sounds coming from behind the screen.

She laughed too. It worked for her. It meant they could talk more freely.

With a grim expression, Liam took up a position leaning against the screen while she had Eamon sit on the massage table rather than the client chair. “I didn’t hear you offer him any assurances,” she said, reintroducing the assassin’s unanswered question.

Eamon shrugged, producing a ripple of muscles beneath his very expensive shirt. “I am lord here.”

“Careful,” she said, touching a fingertip to his lips, a flutter going through her belly when he pulled the finger into his mouth for a quick suck as his gaze dipped to nipples that ached to have him do the same to them.

Two could play this game.

Her hands went to the front of his shirt. “This needs to come off.”

He made no move to help or hurry her as button by button she exposed smooth golden skin. He trembled when she circled pebbled nipples, inhaled sharply when she covered them with the eyes
at the center of her palms though she didn’t need them to see what they had between them. Like to like, the call of it was an ever-increasing compulsion she had no will to resist.

He spread his legs and she stepped into the space he’d created. Her hands moved upward, sliding across his collarbones and then down to his biceps, closing around them to the extent she could. “This is where the tattoos will go, like something a Viking would wear, except instead of fashioned gold it’ll be my ink.”

“A fitting analogy. Truth has been distorted over the centuries and with the merging of one culture into another. The Vikings once called those of us they glimpsed gods. The Aesir. Though the name was a broad label encompassing a number of the supernatural.”

Aesirs. She didn’t want to delve into the reasons he’d named his place what he did. But she couldn’t resist saying, “A god, huh? Don’t expect me to worship you except like this.”

She kissed him, teasing him with lips and tongue and hands that had already learned how and where he liked to be touched, his desire rebounding, ratcheting up her own until they were both breathing hard, the craving for more heightened by the impossibility of having it, given the Elven guard.

Eamon’s smile was pure masculine satisfaction. “As humans are fond of saying, this works for me.”

It took a moment for the haze of need to clear. She laughed. “You mean as worship goes?”

“Yes.” His eyes darkened as he fisted her hair with enough strength to be both threat and turn-on. “Though I also enjoy having you on your knees in front of me.”

Taking his cock in her mouth. Pleasuring him.

Her cunt clenched at the imagery. At the remembered feel and scent and taste of him. With the knowledge that he gave as good as he got, and then some. Always.

We could forget about the tattoo and go home
. But the words remained unspoken, held back by premonition or instinct or something
other than the Dragon, and then Myk arrived with her kit, locking the future in place.

She shook the weird thoughts and sensations off, the routine of setting up tools and ink reducing the burn of desire until it simmered in the background even when her hand circled Eamon’s arm. She held it steady as she used an antiseptic wipe then picked up the disposable razor and stroked it over skin that looked as though it didn’t need it.

“Last chance,” she said after a second hit with the wipe and the application of a small amount of Vaseline.

“Proceed, Etaín.”

The corners of her mouth kicked up at the lordly answer. “Go ahead and lie down then.”

If she were using her machine, she’d put him in a different position, but the handheld needles required intense concentration and strength of will, along with physical stamina and control to push them through skin and put the ink in at a consistent depth.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as a final step. The design was there in her mind with crystal clarity, the muscle memory of it already in her hand from putting it on Cathal.

A second deep breath and she picked up a thin needle, dipping it in black ink. “If you need a break from the pain, tell me.”

Lord
Eamon didn’t deem the instruction worthy of comment, and she felt his utter confidence as she placed her left hand on his right biceps and stretched the skin.

Outline first. The change in position required by it allowing him relief from the sting of the needle even if he didn’t ask for it.

Then shading, though unlike the all-black art she’d put on Cathal, she threaded red and blue and gold into Eamon’s tattoo, the same shades found in the vines and band she wore. The electric hum of connection and awareness snapped into place, stronger than what she’d experienced hugging Jamaal and Derrick, and not yet what she had with Cathal.

Eamon took her hands as she rested after finishing the work on his right biceps. He brushed his thumbs over the eyes on her palms, and immediately Liam was there, stepping into her consciousness like the dark promise of death. “You tempt fate, Lord.”

Because of the magic. Because of the Dragon he believed was only an avatar.

“Come with me to Aesirs,” Eamon said, thighs widening as he pulled her forward until she stood close enough to feel the heat always radiating from him. “Meet more of those who will call you Lady. Spend time in the world that’s your birthright.”

She couldn’t deny him. “I’ll need to detour to my apartment for a change of clothes.”

“The dress of the other night wasn’t the only clothing I purchased with you in mind. An entire wardrobe of outfits suitable for Aesirs is in our suite there.”

She balked at hearing
suitable,
the word still capable, after all these years, of scraping off the thin scab covering old wounds of rejection. She couldn’t prevent the instant stiffening, but she did manage to keep from pulling away and taking the first steps toward escape.

He touched his forehead to hers. “If you like none of the outfits then wear what you have on. I bought them for your pleasure and my own, though personally I prefer you with nothing on at all.”

“I bet you do,” she said on a laugh, kissing him before stepping back, her gaze going to the broad, bold band announcing her claim on him. “I’ll go with you to Aesirs after we’re done here.”

Twenty

P
ass it,” Sleepy Ruiz ordered, mood shifting from generous to pissed as Puppy kept sucking on the pipe.

That’s how Puppy had gotten tagged with the street name. Beer, meth, didn’t matter what was being offered, he was like a
cachorro
on its
madre’s
tit.

Puppy gave up the pipe. Sleepy took a long draw. “Motherfuck, this is good stuff,” he said, getting the flash that made his dick go instantly hard.

He took a second hit before passing the dope to Puppy then picking up the cellphone and looking at the picture Drooler sent from the shop. It was making him crazy not knowing who this guy was and why he was asking around about him.

The only thing he could think of was that it had something to do with Lucky. Fucking Cathal Dunne must have made Lucky talk. Using drugs maybe. Or torture. Lucky would never have given up a homie otherwise.

Lucky wasn’t a coward. An order came down and he’d take care of business. The only way he wouldn’t, especially when Jacko did the asking, was if something bad happened.

Sleepy speed-dialed Drooler. “Come on, man, answer your fucking phone.”

But he knew Drooler wouldn’t if his uncle was out in the shop.
Drooler wouldn’t even text; he wouldn’t risk his
tio’s
temper. The man wouldn’t use his fists there, but he’d sure as fuck use the heel of his boot on any phone he caught being used while someone was on the clock.

He got voicemail. “I’m dying here,
ese
. Call me!”

He put the phone on the couch and held out his hand for the pipe.

Puppy made a little whimpering sound, like they were littermates and he was getting knocked off the teat. Motherfucker might already have been blooded a couple of times, but he wasn’t going to lose the nickname anytime soon.

Sleepy sucked the last of the meth into his lungs, feeling energized, ready to hunt down the guy asking around about him and beat out some answers.

The cell chimed. Drooler.

“Yo, homie,” Sleepy said.

“Emilio didn’t want to give anything up. He said he wanted to stay uninvolved.”

Sleepy lunged to his feet. “He’s going to change his mind when I get there.”

“Chill. Chill. I worked it. You’re going to love this. Might even get some money out of it. Guy was just doing a favor for some tattoo artist friend of his. Supposedly got a book deal going down and needs pictures of the guys she’s put art on.”

“She?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I think Emilio said she. I’m outside on break. I go in to ask, I won’t get back to you for a while.”

“Don’t bother man.”
She
. There was only one she who’d ever put ink on him, and he felt the burn of those places like they’d suddenly come alive and were trying to drag him down and make him feel like a loser.

Bitch
. But his eyes skittered to the crystal pipe on the table.

He’d shaken the habit off once. Even come up to San Francisco
to stay with an older sister to get clear of the gang scene. Homies down in LA didn’t appreciate him covering those tats. Fuck him for letting Justine talk him around to it. But hanging with Lucky who was in tight with Jacko and on his way to being made had smoothed that shit over and now he was sporting new art showing the tie to his boys.

Etaín. That was who covered up his old gang tats. “Emilio give you the guy’s name?”

“No. But somebody else said Derrick something. Said he was a tattoo artist, too, worked at a place called Stylin’ Ink.”

Stylin’ Ink. Yeah, seems that was the place Etaín worked too.

“Thanks, homie.” He took off his shirt and made the muscles ripple, picturing himself in a book.

*   *   *

C
athal pulled to a stop behind Sean’s Hummer, tension like a vise grip squeezing him, and not eased by the constant presence of the ominously silent Heath. Guard? Or bodyguard? The distinction was important.

He’d made himself go by Saoirse earlier, made himself walk past the alley where he’d left Cage to deal with the body. He’d subtly watched his newly acquired companion for a sign Heath knew what had happened but had gotten no hint as to what the Elf thought. Why now and not last night?

A stab of guilt came and went for not swinging by Stylin’ Ink after his meetings. And then a sharper stab because it was a relief to be away from the supernatural.

Yeah right. He caught himself rubbing the tattoo on his left arm. When he concentrated on it, he could feel a low hum. Confirmation Etaín was alive? Or warning he was in the presence of someone not human?