Page 22 of Shattered Hate

“Trayton.”

My hands curl into fists, every muscle in my body tense, as I stare at Daxton with pure hatred burning in my eyes. His nonchalant sigh only fuels the raging inferno within me, and all I can think about is tearing his head off his shoulders.

“What the fuck, Daxton?” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. My anger is reaching its boiling point, my blood pounding in my veins like a volcanic eruption waiting to happen. “You knew,” I state through clenched teeth, not even needing to ask it as a question.

“I did,” he admits. He lets out another heavy sigh before standing up, but I can see the fear in his eyes now. “Listen, I knew if I told you about it, you wouldn’t want to go through with it.”

“You’re damn right I wouldn’t,” I snarl before turning on my heel and making a beeline for the door. To my surprise, Max is still standing there, his expression unreadable. “Sorry, Max. But this”—I jab a finger at Daxton, who now looks deflated by the door, but I couldn’t care less. There’s no way in hell I’m letting that prick near me with a tattoo gun—“is not happening.”

“Have you seen his work?” Max pushes an iPad in my direction, and despite my initial refusal to look, curiosity gets the better of me.

“No, and I don’t give a damn,” I start to say before my eyes land on the animated arm on the screen and my jaw drops at the sight of it. The bottom half of the arm is covered in intricate tattoos, each one holding meaning and significance for me. Multiple pictures show a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the design, leaving me speechless.

It’s perfect.

Even better than what I had envisioned.

A sense of awe and disbelief washes over me as my fingers trace over the three ice hockey pucks, each one bearing numbers. My sixty-nine, Bray’s thirteen, and Kal’s ten from our jerseys—all connected by silver chains held together by a heart charm. On one side of the arm, there’s a hawk with devil horns flying amid blazing flames. A broken chain dangles from its foot.

It’s everything I wanted and more; the visual surpasses anything I could have ever dreamed up. I look up at Daxton, who now stands with his head down.

“How?” I ask him, my voice shaking as emotions flood me. “How did you do this?” He shrugs, still avoiding eye contact, but I can see the slightest hint of pride in his stance. My anger fades away, replaced by a mix of emotions that leaves me feeling emotionally drained yet grateful beyond words.

“I took what you said and drew it.”

I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “No, I never described it like this. It’s… it’s.” I can’t even bring myself to give the prick a compliment, but how can I not get this? It’s everything I wanted and more.

“Watching you.” He stops as I glance up at him, frowning. “In training. It helped, I guess.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t just created a fucking masterpiece.

“Were you drawing this while I was training?” I know he’s meant to be doing the project, but I’ve noticed his eyes on me a lot more since the party. I couldn’t work out what it was.

“Yes,” he admits. “When I create art for someone, I observe them in their everyday life. It helps me form a connection”—he pauses—“with the art.” I nod slowly, my eyes returning to the screen, overwhelmed by the depth of what he’s captured.

“How long would this take to do?”

Daxton squints. “Obviously, I can only do weekends, so it will be over three or four Saturdays, four hours a time, and it will be every two to three weeks to give time for the tattoo to heal as we do it.”

“Okay,” I say, making a decision.

Daxton blinks rapidly, and his eyes widen slightly. “Okay?”

“Yes. I want this tattoo. Can we start next Saturday?” My gaze shifts to Max, who has a smug grin on his face, before quickly trying to hide it when he sees my annoyed expression. When I turn back to Daxton, he stares at me with surprise and his mouth slightly open, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily. “U-um, yeah,” he stammers out. I give him a sharp nod and then turn on my heels toward the door. I grab the handle, but Daxton’s voice stops me.

“You don’t want any changes? Most people want some adjustments made. I can send you the design so you can take a closer look and let me know if anything needs to be changed,” he rushes to say.

I turn sideways, but my eyes drift to the art on the wall for a moment and then to the iPad screen on the counter, and finally back to Daxton. “No,” I confirm. “It’s perfect just the way it is.”

Chapter eleven

Daxton

The day has been a rollercoaster of emotions. Trayton’s decision to get the tattoo left me in shock. I had expected a fight, maybe even some punches thrown. I was convinced that he would lose his mind. And for a moment, it seemed like he might when he raged and cursed. But then Max placed the tablet in front of him, and everything changed. As soon as Trayton saw the design I had created, his anger dissolved, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was my first official sleeve design, or half-sleeve rather, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at that moment. Trayton had provided detailed notes for the tattoo and had ultimately decided on just getting the half-sleeve done for now.

He mentioned in his notes what he wanted, and I created that, but watching him this week, watching him in his element, with Kal and Brayden, I drew without even thinking. It just came to me, and that’s what I mean when I say I need a connection with what I’m drawing. Although I don’t have a connection withTrayton, I had a visual connection with what he wanted. It also helps that, as much as I hate to even think about it, I know Trayton better than he even knows.

And this week made me realize that.

I fucking hated it.

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