Page 27 of Shattered Hate

I tried to steady my breathing, to find a trace of control, but it was useless. The panic consumed me. At that moment,I believed it was the end for me. And the tragic part was, I wasn’t sad. I felt an eerie calmness, a morbid sense of peace. It was then that I realized the panic attack subsided because I had accepted the thought of dying.

And I was okay with that.

That night, I walked for what felt like an eternity; the cool air was freeing. I went to see Bex. He always made it better. I hadn’t felt those dark thoughts since losing Bexley. But my dad and Marley—they dredged it all up. The life I was desperately trying to escape yet feared I never truly would. The memories, the fears—they were inescapable shadows lurking at the edges of my mind.

“What is wrong with you?” Trayton’s voice slices through my spiraling thoughts, yanking me back to reality. My breath comes in ragged gasps, sweat trickles down my temples, and my hands are clammy as they hover over the stencil that stubbornly clings to his arm.

“No-nothing,” I stammer, my voice barely a whisper. I clear my throat, trying to steady myself. Carefully, I peel back the stencil, relieved to see the ink hasn’t smudged.

“I mean it, Rivers. fuck this up, and you’ll regret it,” Trayton growls, his eyes boring into mine with a menacing intensity.

I need a moment, or I’ll ruin everything. Without a word, I stand and cross to the sink, my legs feeling like lead. I gulp down a glass of water, the cool liquid soothing my dry throat. Splashing water on my face, I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. I turn on my heels and march back to Trayton, determination coursing through my veins.

I don’t hesitate. I change my gloves, slipping on a fresh pair with practiced precision. Sitting down, I pick up the tattoo machine, and the instant the buzzing fills the air, my mind goes blissfully silent. The outline of the image on Trayton’s armbegins to take shape, each line bringing it to life. A smile tugs at my lips.

I’m home. Here, in the art, in the hum of the tattoo machine.

I’m home, I repeat to myself, feeling a sense of peace wash over me.

Chapter fourteen

Trayton

My eyes don’t stray from the tattoo gun, its needle piercing into my skin with relentless precision. Every now and then, I flick my gaze to Daxton. I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but he froze. For minutes, I just sat there staring at him because it was the exact same expression he wore the other day. Panic and fear.

I traced the sweat dripping down his forehead, his eyes vacant like a void. His accelerated breaths, the dramatic rise and fall of his chest. The way his hand pressed hard into my arm. He was here, in this room, with me. But he wasn’t. He was somewhere else, and I can’t lie, I nearly got up off this chair and ran out of here.

I don’t need some fucked-up druggy tattooing me and messing it all up. Why did I stay? Who the fuck knows? I kept telling myself he drew that design freehand. All he has to do is trace it. Easy peasy, right? It’s not easy peasy, though, is it? Otherwise, everyone would be tattooing.

And that’s not the reason I stayed, is it? No. As much as I hate to admit it, a teeny tiny part of me wanted to make sure he was okay. I would never admit to those words out loud. Ever. But something about his eyes—they looked sad, lost even.

Maybe I just craved to see him sad. That would make sense. I shuffle slightly, the soreness seeping into my skin as he shades over one particular bit. I glance at where he’s working. Does he really need to go over it so many times? “Will you sit still,” Daxton deadpans, clearly annoyed.

“I can’t get comfortable,” I lie. Ain’t no way I’m admitting it’s sore. I’m a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound hockey player. I can handle a fucking tattoo.

“Sure it’s that,” he sarcastically replies, and I hiss through my teeth as I swear he digs that fucking needle into my arm more than necessary. His eyes flash up to mine, and a small smirk tips the side of his lips. Fucking prick.

I stop looking at his hand and that tattoo gun, allowing my eyes to trace over the rest of the room. It’s a big room with four other tattoo stations set up. Each one has pictures up on billboards showcasing tattoos I’m assuming each artist has done. I turn my head sideways to see if Daxton has a billboard, and he does, but instead of tattoo images, he has sketches he’s done. One is my tattoo. God, it’s fucking perfect. That’s when I spot another billboard next to Daxton’s but still in his corner. It’s pictures of piercings. And it’s actual people in this one. Lip piercings, eyebrows, tongues—so many. And then a sign above that says “I pierce too.”

“You do piercings?” I blurt out before I can think better of it because do I really care? No. I’m just intrigued, I guess, and bored.

“Yup,” he states. I turn my head to look at him, his brows furrowed in pure concentration as he shades away. His top teeth bite down on his lip ring—a habit I’ve noticed he’s kept up theentire time since he started tattooing. For some reason unknown to me, I seize the moment to analyze him. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at him this closely before.

It’s annoying as hell because I’m already jealous of his mile-long, jet-black eyelashes. He must get them tinted; no one’s lashes are that black. But then I notice his hair. It’s just as black as his eyelashes, trimmed sharply on the sides, but a wild mat of curls on top. A few of them dangle over his forehead, suspended in midair as he leans closer to my arm. A dust of dark freckles sits atop his small nose, which stands out against his pale skin.

“Are you wearing mascara?” I ask.

Daxton’s lips curl up on one side before his eyes shift, pinning me in place. He doesn’t move a muscle; only his eyes move, and that’s when I truly see them.

So green.

Not just any green—like vibrant emeralds ablaze with an inner fire.

An intense, searing green that seems to pierce right through me.

Ablaze with inner fire? What is wrong with me?

“No,” he states flatly, his smile fading as he immerses himself back into his work.

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