Page 36 of Marx

I let out a giggle, and I’m intrigued as to how two large, rough grumpy men managed to come from this sweet man.

“They get it from their momma,” he says with a grin.

“I’m so sorry! Holy moley I can’t believe I said that out loud!” I press my cool hands to my flaming cheeks, wanting to crawl into the cabin and slam the door behind me.

“You did, but it’s fine. No one has called me sweet before.” He bumps my shoulder with his larger one. “Anyway girl, I was thinking, what would you say to still working in a DRMC business, but one where you can share your gift with the world?”

“DRMC doesn’t have any businesses that would let me draw all day, Mad Dog.” I give him a look.

“Not yet. But I’m happy to reopen the ink shop if you want to learn to tattoo.” He smiles gently at me and my stomach flips.

I’d not thought about drawing for years. It was beaten out of me, the joy of creating, but in this life, my new improved life, it’s something that I’ve been loving. The quiet moments, trying to get the snub of a nose just right, the look in someone’s eye, capturing the emotion. My soul is being fed in a way I never thought it would ever again, but in order to embrace itcompletely, I’m going to have to share something that has always shamed me.

“I already know how to tattoo. Kinda.” I say the words but they come out as a whisper.

“What?” Mad Dog asks, turning to face me, looking a little shocked.

I rub the little bee on my wrist, the one I did myself to remind me that everything I’ve done, and continue to do, is for Bee. Even if that means confessing to something that has always made me feel like a monster.

Clearing my throat, I repeat myself, trying to sound strong but even to my ears I can hear the waver in my voice. “I already know how to tattoo.” I rush ahead to get the rest of the story out before I clam up and bury it. “I’ve always loved to draw but at the Keep having hobbies or talents was frowned upon. If you excelled at something you’d be accused of doing it to garner attention, and there is nothing more unattractive than a woman begging for attention.” My father’s cruel jibes ring in my ears, no daughter of his will draw attention to herself like a two bit whore. “When I was around 13 or 14 there was an influx of women into the Keep. I’m not sure where they came from, but none of them looked happy to be there. Some of them tried running away, escaping. Begging other Keep women for help and no one would. They were married off quickly to the leaders and the higher ups in the council, but because of the sheer number of them, probably 30 or so, the men kept getting their wives mixed up.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Mad Dog growls, running a hand down his face.

“My father came to me,” I continue on, rubbing the little bee tattoo for strength, “asking me to draw a crest for each man’s family. I was over the moon. My father had actually given me consent to draw, to produce something for the families of theKeep. I worked day and night on them, making sure I had them just right. Then one evening I was given a tattoo gun. It was rudimental at best. I was told in no uncertain terms that my job was to brand the women with who they belonged to. The first few were awful. I didn’t want to do it, the women fought until their husbands and other council members held them down. I cried with them.” I choke out the last words, the pain of that night crashing down on me like a wave.

“Oh Lovely girl, come here.” Mad Dog moves me closer to him, his heavy arm over my shoulder’s grounds me as I let my tears soak into his plaid shirt.

“The first tattoos were awful. I didn’t know what I was doing and they got infected. One woman died when her husband refused to get her any help. She died because of me!” I sob.

“No, no, girl. She died because of those greedy fuckers. Not you, never you. You were a little girl, Lovely, you had no power over your actions. Shhhhh, it’s OK, I got you.” Mad Dog soothes, the gentle timbre of his voice patching up the hurt in my heart.

I bawl for only God knows how long, until I can’t cry anymore. I know what Mad Dog says is true, that I was too young to fight back, however I’ve carried that guilt with me for years. Sitting there, under my skin, knowing those women were walking around carrying brands from the men they hated.

“After that first lot of tattoos my father gave me a book on tattooing. I worked on dead pig skin until I could get it right and not make anyone sick.”

“How long were you tattooing in the Keep, Lovely?”

“Until I left. Eleven years.” I sniff, wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweater. He hums, the rumble through his chest soothing me.

“Do you know what I think? I think you have a real chance of using your talent to change lives, Lovely. Do you know how many women, survivors of abuse, get tattoos to remind them oftheir strength? So many want to have it marked on their skin that they survived, that they came out the other side, and those women I would regretfully turn away because they don’t want a man to mark them again. They want a woman, a fellow survivor. Someone like you, sweetheart. You can use the gift you have to bring light into people’s lives. Maybe that will help color over the darkness you were forced to live in. Think about it, yeah?” His words burrow their way into my chest and my stomach flutters.

Can I turn my shame into something else, something healing? I feel him press a kiss to the top of my head, and then I’m being lifted, gathered into strong arms that carry me into my little home. Marx’s dark gaze stares down at me, boring into my soul, giving me strength I know I have somewhere inside me, it’s just been exhausted from my confession. He sits on the couch, me in his lap, his arms holding me tight, grounding me to him.

“You’re a fucking revelation, Lovely Landry. I can only wish I was as strong as you.”

And with that, he presses his lips to mine.

Marx

Every fibre of my being tells me I don’t deserve to steal this kiss, but fuck it. I’m an asshole and I’m taking what I want. What I need to ground me before I burn down the fucking world. The need to kill someone, with my bare hands rushes over me andit’s only Lovely’s sweet mouth pressed against mine that has the murderous urge subsiding.

Pulling back to stare at her, her blotchy pink face, red nose, puffy eyes, and she’s never looked more beautiful. Her lead smudged fingers rest lightly against her lips, where mine were just a moment ago.

“Marx?” she whispers, eyes flicking between mine, looking for answers.

“I’ve been a fucking asshole to you, Lovely, but no more.” She bared her soul to my father, within my earshot, and now it’s my turn to bare mine. “You scare the living shit out of me.” She rears back, confused, and I don’t blame her. Shit, hopefully I can get through this without messing up. “You are stronger than anyone, fuckinganyoneI’ve ever met. I know you have a past, one so shitty it led you to flee in the middle of the night with a newborn. You have every right to hole up in here, and shun the world but you don’t. You grab life by the balls and make it your bitch. You treat everyone with kindness and love when you have every right to scream and shout how life isn’t fair. You weren’t broken by the Keep, Lovely. But you were almost broken by my words and for that I am so fucking sorry. You scare me with your strength and your light and because of the feelings you stir within me, because I know, I fuckingknowthat if you chose to love me, I wouldn’t deserve it. Ever.”

“Marx,” she whispers and I have to get this out.

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