Page 96 of Breaking Isolde
She notices the case, the battered leather with its war wounds. “What’s that?”
I run my hand over the top. “A family tradition. Sort of.”
She narrows her eyes, wary but intrigued. “Your family’s idea of fun is pretty fucking weird.”
I laugh, not because it’s funny but because it’s true. “I never wanted to brand you,” I say, each word careful and slow. “Not the way the Board would. But I want you marked. I want something of me on you, and something of you on me. If you’ll let me.”
She looks at the kit, then at me. “You want to tattoo me?”
I nod.
She blinks, considering. “What if I mess yours up?”
“I don’t care.”
She pulls her knees closer, chin on her arms. For a second, I think she’ll say no, or worse, laugh at me. But then she smiles—a small, tired thing—and says, “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
I offer my hand. She takes it, lets me pull her up. She squeals when I pull her across my chest. I carry her down the hall and up the stairs, toward the guest room, and she doesn’t fight me. Not once.
She watches the case as we walk, her face a mix of curiosity and dread. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Yeah,” I say. “A lot.”
She smiles again, wider this time. “Good.”
I set her on the bed, open the kit, and start prepping the needles. Her eyes never leave my hands.
“Where?”
I tap the space just below her collarbone. “Here. Left side. It’s closest to your heart.”
She nods, solemn. “You?”
I pull my shirt off, expose my chest. “You pick.”
She laughs, then shrugs. “Same spot. But bigger.”
I grin. “Deal.”
Pulling her onto me, thighs hooked over my lap, both of us breathing heavy. She holds still, lips tight, eyes on the ceiling. Her pulse jumps under my fingers.
A kitten. Because she’s my wildcat. Yesterday, today and forevermore. I want her to wear the reminder, so she never forgets what she is.
“Ready?” I ask, thumb brushing the spot. I don’t need stencils, In another life I was a sketch artist and drew my fair share of cats.
She nods. “Do it.”
I hold her chin in one hand and kiss her hard, biting her bottom lip. She gasps into my mouth, her hands gripping my wrists, and for a second, I want to forget the tattoo, the world, the war outside. I want to drown in this—her, the sweat, the taste of her tongue.
But I don’t. I pull back and power up the machine. The buzz fills the room, loud and insistent. She tenses, but doesn’t flinch.
The first needle hits skin and she hisses, but refuses to look away. She watches the gun, the tip, the way my hands don’t shake even a little. Blood beads up, mixing with the black ink, but I wipe it away and keep going.
She’s silent for the first five minutes, teeth grinding, but then she starts to tremble. I pause, press my palm to her sternum, feel the rapid-fire beat of her heart.
“You okay?”
She nods, hair falling in her face. “Yeah. Keep going.”
