Page 82 of Warrior

I keep my gaze fixed on where the wall meets the ceiling in front of me.

He hums under his breath. At one point, he switches to a finer-tipped pen. I still don’t peek. I concentrate on the burning scratches, my body aching. The pain has traveled from my scalp down my spine, settling in my hips. I fight the urge to shift my weight.

Finally, he caps the pen and takes a step back.

“You can look,” he says in a low voice. He directs me to a mirror hung on the wall. “Tell me if you hate it.”

I shoot him a look. I’veseenhis work. Through countless hours sitting on the white couch in the front of his shop, takingmywork here just because I was terrified he would slip out and kill himself when I wasn’t watching.

The way he acted right after Nyx died was a scary time. He held it together for everyone else, but I saw through it. I hurt right along with him, but that solidarity wasn’t enough.

I don’t know if he even felt it.

I was more of a planted watchdog than a friend.

But that need to make sure he stayed safe slowly faded when he didn’t act out. It was impossible to tell if he was just pretending or if he really didn’t mean it when he told Jace he wanted to die.

Or when he ran into the ocean and had to be dragged out.

Too many examples for comfort spring to mind. He went through a phase of running himself ragged, which he said was just to be exhaust his body enough to sleep.

But he didn’t stop tattooing. If anything, he took more clients. He wanted to be here all the time—and I get that. It’s the best sort of distraction for his brainandhis body.

All that is to say, he only grew better. Magazines came to interview him. Famous people, even NHL players, traveled to Sterling Falls to see him. His work was worth it.Isworth it.

He did that all with a broken heart.

I step up to the mirror, analyzing myself first. Hair: curling and a bit frizzy. Dark circles under my eyes. The wounds I suffered at the hands of Gabriel—the stabbing and subsequent heroin-induced coma—made me lose too much weight.

I feel similar to how I felt emerging from Terror. Hollow.

But my gaze finally drops to my collarbone, and my breath sticks in my chest.

Through the layers of marker, from a light blue to a darker purple, I make out the scales of justice exploding with wildflowers. It’s about the size of my palm, and some of the flowers extend down toward my breast, and others up to the ball of my shoulder.

My eyes burn.

I blink rapidly, but I can’t really make sense of it.

“What does it mean?”

He steps up behind me. “I think you’ll figure it out… if you want it. Should I change anything?”

“I want it exactly as it is,” I say immediately.

“Okay.”

I turn away from the mirror and take a seat. I hold the sweatshirt over my breasts, but after a long moment, slowly lower them.

He groans through his teeth. “You want to make this difficult?”

“You could’ve picked something easier,” I answer. “My thigh.”

“Seeing your thigh would not have been any easier.”

I smirk.

He takes a seat and rolls the stool closer. He adjusts my chair to a better angle, tilting it back so I’m reclined.

---