Page 97 of Breaking Isolde
So I do. I shade the ears, thicken the tail, add three whiskers and a small heart. When it’s done, I clean the line and put the second skin on it.
She touches the dressing, her fingers shaking. “It hurts.”
“It’s supposed to.”
She laughs, but it’s shaky.
I swap out the needle, set a fresh line, and hand her the gun. “Your turn.”
She blinks, then stares at the machine like it’s a loaded pistol. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Her hands are clumsy, but she holds the pen. She cleans my skin, then hesitates.
“Last chance to bail,” she whispers.
“Do it.”
The first touch of the needle is tentative, almost featherlight. She flicks up too fast, and then down slower. She has no idea what she’s doing and despite the fact that she might cause a blow out, I’m excited to have her mark on me, whatever it is. The pain is secondary to the fact that she’s marking me, making me hers in a way the Board rituals never could.
When it’s done, she sits back and wipes the sweat off her brow. Her face is pale, eyes glazed, but she’s proud. “You’re bleeding.”
“I bleed for you,” I say, and it’s not a joke.
She stares at me, mouth working, but no sound comes out.
I take her hand, pull her off the bed, and walk us to the bathroom. The light in here is blue-white, clinical. We stand side by side, shirtless.
She leans in, squinting at her collarbone. “It’s crooked,” she says.
“I know. It suits you.”
She traces the moon and star she did on me. “I fucked yours up, too.”
“Good,” I say. “I like it ugly.”
We stand there for a while, just breathing, letting the pain roll through. She rests her head on my shoulder, the top of her skull fitting perfectly under my jaw. She smells like iodine and ink and sweat and something else—something I can’t name but know I’ll never forget.
“Why a kitten?” she asks, voice muffled.
“Because you always act like you’re going to bite, but you never really break the skin.”
She giggles and slaps my chest. “You’re wrong, Grey. I’m going to tear you apart someday.”
I kiss her hair, then the top of her head. “I hope so.”
We stay like that, breathing each other in, until the pain dulls and the reality sets in.
She looks up at me, eyes raw, voice shaky. “Why did you let me?”
I don’t answer right away. I want to say something poetic or cruel, but instead, I say, “Because I wanted you to mark me. I wanted to belong to you as much as you belong to me.”
She shivers, then turns, pressing her back to my chest. We stare at our reflections, twin marks visible in the glass.
She says nothing, but her hand finds mine, and she squeezes.
I want to say something, anything to break the tension that’s building. Instead, I look at her, really look, and ask, “Why the moon and star?”
