Page 83 of Rapunzel Is Losing It

“I got them because they reminded me that my body was my own. My uncle could make me throw punches, dictate what I eat, when I sleep, where I go, who got to beat me to a pulp. My skin was my own.”

“Oh.” My chest deflated, air replaced by a dull ache for him. “Victor.”

“So you pick a favorite. It’ll be mine because you like it.”

“I can do that.” I bit my lip, unsure where to start. I knew many of them by heart, from the classic roses on the backs of his hands to the moth wrapping its wings around his neck. And then there were some I had barely caught glimpses of. “Turn over.”

He quirked his brows but when I rose to my knees to give him space, he wordlessly twisted under me to give me a better view of his back.

My hands roamed down his shoulder blades, his muscles rippling under my touch. His back was warm and hard and covered in dry branches, birds and ornaments, all coming together in a mosaic of a skull. It was hard to focus on the ink, when Victor made small humming noises while my fingers traced patterns over his skin.

“Victor?” I whispered.

“Hmm.”

I flattened myself against his back, whispering a kiss against his spine. “I want you to get a new tattoo. Would you do that?”

“Anything specific?”

“No,” I mumbled, kissing the space between his shoulder blades again, “I don’t want to choose one of the tattoos that are all yours. They kept you alive. They got you to me. But they’re all your past. I want a good one. A happy one.”

Victor flipped us over. On my back, with him between my legs, his erection pressed against my center. I whimpered, but he ignored the pathetic reaction he drew from my lips.

“Where do you want the tattoo?” he asked.

I picked his right hand off the mattress, interlacing my fingers with his and turning them over. On that hand, only his middle finger had ink on it, a small dragon. The other fingers were still perfect empty canvases. “Here. So I can see it all the time.”

“Anything specific?”

“Something happy.”

“Tea cup?”

“Not bad.”

“Kittens.”

“Better.”

“Gummy bears.”

“Perfect.” I smiled.

He tilted his chin, eyes dropping to our linked hands. “A ring.”

“Tha-” My breath left me in a single whoosh. He couldn’t mean what I thought he meant. “Wrong hand.”

“Russian people wear it on the right hand.”

He definitely meant what I thought he meant. “If this is your way of proposing to me…”

“I don’t need to propose. We both know this is it.”

“So I’m not even getting a ring?”

“You want a ring? I’ll get you a ring. But I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not proposing. There is no question whether or not you will be my wife. We are undeniable.”

“A gummy bear on your index finger,” I said, “and a wedding band on your ring finger.”

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