Page 112 of The Boy I Loved
“Easy,” the stranger reprimanded. “You don’t want me to botch it now, do you?” He raised two brown eyebrows, shooting me a pointed look.
I slumped against the mattress in defeat, my stomach twisting into a series of knots. Helplessness coiled through my body. Sucking in a sharp breath, I allowed my eyes to flutter closed. I focused on the sound of the tattoo gun and on my breathing, willing myself to calm down. Freaking out would only make matters worse. There was nothing I could do.
The warm press of a finger skated across my cheek, swiping the wetness that collected there away. I sniffled, refusing to look at him again. He didn’t deserve anything from me—not my attention, not my gratitude, and definitely not my compliance.
At least the tattoo would be under my clothes where nobody could see, but it didn’t make me feel a whole lot better. It was still there, and I knew it was there. The art alone was like a brand. It would be a constant reminder of who had done this to me, and I’d have to live with it for the rest of my life.
The minutes ticked by, seeming to drag on for hours. Finally, the buzzing stopped. Something swept across my stomach—a cloth of some sort—and then ointment was being rubbed into my skin. I gritted my teeth, trying my best to ignore the pain.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in…
“All finished,” the man said proudly, placing something thin and plastic over his artwork. “Try not to get it wet for a couple of days, and when you do, keep the wrap over it.”
Saidwrapclung to my skin like an uncomfortable sticker, collecting the heat inside until all I could feel was unruly discomfort.
Tristan thanked the man and gave him permission to leave. Once the stranger had gathered up all of his things, he turned on hisheels and hurried from the room as if he couldn’t leave fast enough. The asshole barely spared me a glance, like I didn’t even exist to him. Hell, if he worked here … I probably didn’t.
Tristan placed a hand on my arm and the other on my side. Before I could question what he was doing, he was rolling me on my left arm. I wiggled against the restraints again, annoyance flickering through me.
“Stop fidgeting,” he hissed as if he was reprimanding a disobedient child.
My teeth sank into my tongue, but I forced myself to obey. He dropped his hands to my wrists and started toying with the restraint there. After a few moments, it came loose, allowing the blood to circulate freely through them. A relieved breath fluttered past my lips as I flexed my fingers and pulled my arms in front of me again. There were red and purple lacerations embedded around each one, but at least they hadn’t been chopped off.
Have I mentioned before how badly my standards have lowered?
“On your back again,” he instructed.
My body was still weak from the drug he’d pumped through my veins and from being woken in such an awful way. It took me a few attempts, but I eventually managed to roll onto my back as requested.
Tristan walked toward the end of the bed and worked on undoing the binding there as well. Once that was accomplished, I scrambled into a sitting position, pressing my back firmly against the wall. A wince captured my features when the movement only aided to tug on my stomach.
“Do you want to see it?” He grinned, flashing his gorgeous, white teeth at me.
I swallowed nervously.
Did I want to see it? There was a part of me that just wanted to pretend it never happened and that it didn’t exist.
Blowing out a breath, I glanced down at my stomach. It took me a few moments to realize what I was seeing. It didn’t help that the words were upside down, either.
Squinting, I slowly began to read over it again and again until it clicked.
I could feel the blood drain from my skin, bile rising to the back of my throat. My shocked gaze clashed with Tristan’s pride-filled one, and in that moment … I wanted to fucking murder him more than I ever had before.
“What have you done?” I asked in a breathless whisper, my voice coming out shaky with the thinning restraint.
Tristan only smirked in response, leaning over so that we were face to face. “Making sure you remain mine,” he replied, quickly closing the distance and pressing his lips to mine.
I didn’t kiss him back.
Even when his teeth nipped at my lower lip and he growled in frustration.
“I’ll never be yours,” I snapped, my restraint finally slipping through my fingers, replaced with an all-consuming rage.
If he was put off by my angry outburst, he didn’t show it. Instead, he smiled in that manic way he did when he was about to do something vile and leaned closer. His tongue darted out, swiping along the corner of my mouth. “Then why do you taste like mine?”
His spicy cologne filled my senses, as if my body needed time to regulate, and only now was I noticing everything around me again. My eyes bounced to the tattoo again, my lower lip trembling with the urge to either cry or bite him the next time he tried to kiss me.
He’d probably like that too much—sadistic fuck.
