Page 62 of Inked Daddies

My mouth quirks in a faint, wry smile. “I’ve convinced more powerful men than him to do our bidding. Preacher is stubborn, but I suspect he loves you enough to adapt.” I rest an elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning in. “Don’t let him steal your joy or your freedom. That’s not what you want, is it?”

She shakes her head, tears brimming. “No. But I can’t stand him hating me, or thinking I’m…immoral or something.”

I nod. “As I said, he’ll adapt. He is your father. He wants you to be happy. More than that, he wants you to be safe. He could have one of us watching out for you, or three of us. It is simple math. He will see things our way.”

She softens just a fraction. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m overthinking everything.”

“When we step outside the norm, that’s natural. But you’re not alone, love.” The endearment slips out. I don’t apologize for it. I never will. “We four share this, whatever it is. We’ll handle the details. Together.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

I stand, crossing the space and settling on the ottoman beside her. My arm drapes around her shoulders, and she nestles into my side. “So,” I say, conjuring a teasing note, “the rest of your questions revolve around the four of us, hmm? That we arenontraditional?”

She snorts softly. “Understatement. But it’s good, right? I mean, you’re all so different. And me? I’m just a librarian who writes secret romance novels. I’m trying to see how I fit with three tattoo artists.”

I brush a strand of hair from her face. “You fit. We wouldn’t want you if you didn’t.”

We lapse into quiet again, neither of us quite sure what else to say. The hush isn’t awkward, though. It’s more that we’re both processing. Eventually, she shifts, eyeing the swirling black lines on my forearm. “Hugo,” she says softly, “your tattoos…they tell a story, right? A piece of your journey?”

I tilt my head, glancing at the intricate ink wrapped around my muscles. “Oui,” I murmur, letting the French slip. “Skin can carry stories the same way paper does. Skin or paper, ink tells the tale.” I peel my T-shirt over my shoulders. Her gaze roams the swirling lines and geometric shapes that wrap my biceps, the stylized raven perched near my collarbone, the scattered symbols across my chest.

“Go on,” I say softly. “Read me.”

She draws close, eyes flicking across the geometric whorls. Her fingertips brush my forearm first, tracing the bold lines. My breath hitches. Even this small contact sends a pulse of heat up my spine. I can’t deny I love the feel of her gentle exploration.

She murmurs, “This one,” pointing at a swirling pattern that merges triangles and circles. “It seems…controlled. Like it’s part of a bigger design.”

I nod. “It is. That’s about order, strategy. A reminder I gave myself to think three steps ahead.”

She hums, letting her fingers drift up to the raven on my shoulder, each feather rendered in black, edges sharpened to exude watchfulness. It is designed to appear as origami—all edges and lines. “This raven feels protective,” she says, voice hushed. “Like it’s guarding something important.”

“Oui. It symbolizes watching over those I care about,” I confirm. “It’s…personal.”

She focuses on the design and murmurs, “Crows stand guard. They can be tricky and clever. But they remember the people who hurt them too. And they’re not afraid to do something about it…”

She speaks of me. But I wonder if she knows it.

Her fingertips slide toward the pair of rings in my nipples. “And these? What do they mean?”

“Secrets,” I say, half laughing. “You’ll have to earn those stories in time.”

She smirks, face flushing slightly. “I plan to.”

The moment lingers, more intimate than anything else we’ve done. It’s deeper than mere lust. She’s reading me, discovering the hidden layers in my ink. My chest tightens with an unexpected wave of vulnerability. I never let people see me this closely—not physically, but emotionally. She senses it, letting her palm rest gently over a patch of swirling designs near my heart. My breath stutters.

“You’re good at this,” I murmur, letting my forehead rest against hers for a moment. “Finding meaning in the lines. Not everyone sees the deeper story.”

“I want to know all your stories, Hugo.”

Heat floods me, along with affection, desire, and the worry that I might reveal too much. “You already see more than most.”

Then I lean in, capturing her lips in a gentle, deliberate kiss. She melts against me, arms sliding around my neck. My mind goes blissfully quiet except for the pounding of my heart. Nothing but Marie does that for me. Not the drugs I tried, the sex I’ve had, or the violence I poured into the world once upon a time.

Just Marie.

The stillness envelops us as we deepen the kiss. The night is not over, not while we still have each other’s warmth. My hand cups her cheek, guiding the angle, savoring the taste of her mouth. She responds with a low moan, fingers tightening in my hair.

For a while, we stay like that, exploring each other’s mouths in a calm, almost reverent way. No frenzied passion, just slow, deliberate closeness. My chest aches as she unravels me with every brush of her lips. Every kiss, a prayer or a study in peace.

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