Page 11 of Sealed in Ink
“You’re just a perfectionist.”
He stands up and smirks down at me. I’ve never seen him smile this much before. Well, notatme. With Brad, he’s generally upbeat, but he’s never been like this one-on-one before. It feels super significant. It feelssinfullysignificant, honestly.
“Says the one who cooked a perfect steak.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet!”
He chuckles. “I don’t need to.”
In my mind, Mom frowns.“Look at you, pretending like you’re on a date. Are you going to have sex with him before or after your brother gets home?”I stamp down on the thought. Or try to. Fail to.
In the dining room, we sit at the table, Rust looking down at his meal with a content expression. I’m struck with a homely sense as if I’ve just cooked dinner for my man, my husband, and now we’ll settle down for the night. It’s so, so, so out of place that I want to scream. Andhusband?I couldn’t even legally get married until ten months ago.
I eagerly watch him when he bites into his steak, anticipating his reaction. It makes the crashing rain and thunder seem much more distant.
“Delicious,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“I thought I was supposed to be the perfectionist.”
I smile. It’s more than that. His words light a torch inside me, making every inch of me glow. It’s worth more to me than he would ever guess and would probably even make sense to him.
“You seem in a good mood,” I say.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Did I break the spell?”
“Coach says it’s good to smile before a training camp. He says a warrior has to have memories of being happy when he goes into war. Something to fight for. It’s never seemed that deep to me.”
“It must be terrifying,” I whisper, thinking of his fights.
He shrugs. “It’s combat. It’s my passion—the techniques, drilling them, and putting them into practice. There’s something special about everything fitting into place. Every opponent is a puzzle, and the body is the tool I use to work it out.”
“I can’t evenwatchyour fights,” I say, realizing I’ve probably shared too much.
“Really?” he asks. “Why not?”
Because I hate seeing him get hit in the face, kicked, or hurt. Even when he wins the fight—which he has every time except one—there’s still a chance he’ll get hurt. It just shatters something inside me.
“I don’t like violence, I guess.”
“Violence is just a part of life,” he says, and my heart flutters strangely. That’s such a depressing statement, but it’s true for him. It always has been. I’ve never heard him talk about his childhood. He never answers questions about it publicly, but I know it’s dark.
“Why don’t you have any tattoos?” I ask. “If you’re thinking of doing it.”
“I’ve thought about it but don’t know what I’d get. Honestly, I’m more interested in the craft than anything.”
“You need a live subject,” I say, laughing. “A willing sacrifice.”
He smirks, making me glow way brighter than he has any right to. “Are you volunteering?”
“What? Me? No way. Mom always said tattoos were tacky.”
He narrows his eyes. “She said that to you?”
Well, yes, in the video. One of her frequently spoken rules.“Tattoos are for women who have willfully given into their worst desires.”
