Page 84 of You Owe Me

She does. Barely. Then the needle touches her skin.

She flinches—just a tiny twitch—but I tighten my grip on her hand, and she stills. I watch every line form, every curve of the I, the smooth pull of the O, the sharp finality of the U. Each stroke burns into her like a vow I never asked her to make, but she’s making it anyway.

And the whole time, her eyes are on me. Not the needle. Not the artist. Me. Like I’m the only thing anchoring her in the room.

When it’s done, the artist wipes away the excess ink. The IOU gleams, raw and perfect, right over her pulse. Mine. Every inch of it.

“Your turn,” he says.

I stand, tug my shirt over my head, and toss it onto the chair. Ainsley inhales sharply. Her eyes drop to my chest, to the spot I’m already pointing to—left side, over my heart.

The artist raises an eyebrow. “Same word?”

I nod. “Her handwriting.”

He copies it quickly—her careful, feminine scrawl. She watches the whole thing in silence.

The moment the needle hits my skin, I lock eyes with her. It stings, but I don’t flinch. Pain is familiar. So is permanence. But this? Having her script etched onto my chest? That’s something new. That’s submission—voluntary, permanent.

And the way she looks at me while it happens? Like she knows. Like she’s never seen anything so intimate in her life.

When it’s finished, I don’t reach for my shirt. I don’t bandage it yet. I just stand and look at her, at the ink, at the mark I made and the one she gave me.

And then I move.

Outside, I open her car door, but instead of letting her get in, I press her back against the side of the car. My hands cage her in, braced on either side of her head. The metal’s warm beneath her, but I’m warmer. My bare chest brushes her hoodie. My eyes stay locked on hers.

“No more lies,” I say, voice low, barely audible.

Her breath catches.

“No more sneaking behind my back. No more collecting favors in my name.”

Her chin tips up—defiant, breathless.

“And if I do?” she whispers.

I lean in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “You won’t.”

She swallows hard.

“You used my power,” I murmur, lips ghosting along her jaw, “and you made it yours.”

I trail one hand down and brush my thumb over the new tattoo on her wrist.

“You don’t get to walk away from that.”

Her whole body trembles.

“You think this is punishment?” I drag my eyes down her throat. “This is foreplay.”

“Maverick,” she whispers, already breathless.

I back up half an inch, just enough to look down at her, bare chest to her hoodie.

“You’re part of this now. Part of me.”

She nods.

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