Page 102 of Imprisoned

Axel groans but releases me. “Your mother’s still trying to fatten me up.”

I smile, watching him stretch his tattooed body as he rises from the bed. My mother was shocked when I first brought him home, but over time, she’d come to accept, if not fully understand, what we had.

“She thinks you haven’t got enough fat on you,” I tease, pulling on a flowing sundress that catches the ocean breeze through our open windows.

Axel slips into linen pants and a t-shirt—casual clothes that would have looked strange on the man I first met behind prison walls. “She knows what I’ve done, yet she still feeds me homemade bread.”

“That’s Mom,” I say softly. “She tends to everything that needs care.”

We walk hand in hand through our airy house toward the kitchen. Through the windows, I spot my mother in her garden, the sprawling paradise she’s created in our backyard. Tropical flowers bloom in riotous colors while butterflies dance between the blossoms. She spends hours there, finding peace after the chaos of our escape.

“Tommy’s already up,” Axel notes, nodding toward the villa next door, where Tommy sits on his porch with his girlfriend, Lucia. They’re drinking coffee, heads bent together in conversation.

“They look happy,” I observe.

Axel squeezes my hand. “He deserves it. The kid never had a chance before.”

These moments of tenderness from Axel still surprise me. He’s found a balance I never thought possible—channeling his roughness into protecting us rather than destroying others. The voices still come sometimes; I see it in his eyes when they do. He’s learned to quiet them, to redirect that energy.

“And you?” he asks, his hand drifting to my stomach. “Are you happy?”

I place my hand over his. “I have everything I never knew I wanted.”

I watch Axel walk onto our private terrace overlooking the ocean, carrying a small black case. The afternoon suncasts golden patterns across his skin, highlighting the intricate artwork that covers his body. He sets the case down on the table between our loungers and opens it carefully.

“What’s that?” I ask, setting aside my book.

Axel’s eyes meet mine. “Remember what I promised you?”

My mind flashes back to our conversations in the prison when fantasy and reality blurred together in dangerous ways. “You promised me many things,” I say with a small smile.

“I promised to mark you as mine.” He pulls out a tattoo machine, ink vials, and other supplies from the case. “Forever.”

I sit up straighter, my pulse quickening. “I thought you’d forgotten about that promise.”

“Never, little pixie,” he says, arranging the items methodically.

I watch as he prepares everything with practiced precision. I’ve seen Axel focused before—planning our escape, analyzing threats—but this is different. There’s an artistic care in his movements, a creative attention to detail I’ve never witnessed. His hands, usually instruments of violence, now move with the delicate precision of an artist.

“What design were you thinking?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

His lips curve into that smile that still makes my knees weak. “Something small. Something only for us.” He shows me a simple sketch—a delicate design that combines elements meaningful to both of us. “Here,” he says, touching the inside of my wrist. “Where you can see it every day.”

I nod, extending my arm to him. “Do it.”

Axel prepares my skin, his touch gentle yet firm. When the needle first touches me, I inhale sharply at the sensation—not entirely pain, not entirely pleasure, but something that dances between both worlds.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, glancing up at me.

I nod, unable to form words as he continues. Each press of the needle sends electricity through my body, connecting us in a way that feels ancient and primal. I watch his face as he works—completely absorbed, reverent almost. This man who has taken lives is now creating something permanent on my skin with the utmost care.

I watch as Axel finishes the tattoo, his concentration is absolute as he wipes away the last traces of ink and blood. When he’s done, he sits back, examining his work critically before nodding.

“Take a look,” he says.

I draw my wrist closer to see what he’s created. It’s beautiful—a delicate design that intertwines two elements: a small pixie wing—his nickname for me—merged with prison bars. Around them twines a thin line representing our journey together—broken in places yet continuing onward.

“It’s perfect.” I trace my finger gently beside the fresh ink. “Our beginning and our path forward.”

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