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There’s a red lantern hanging above the doorway swaying slightly in the breeze, the only sign of life in this otherwise hidden corner of the city.
I have no idea where we are, or what we’re about to do. Mal called someone on the way, but the whole conversation was in Japanese and he wouldn’t tell me a thing.
“What is this place?” I ask curiously.
Mal steps out of the Jeep, his eyes never leaving mine as he walks around to my side. He opens the door for me, extending his hand, and I feel a rush of anticipation as I take it.
“Tattoo parlor,” he says simply. “One of the oldest in Kyoto. The man who runs it now is atwelfth-generation tattoo artist.”
My heart skips as I look up at the ancient building. A nervous energy throbs through me. But I grin and let it take hold.
Good. I want that rush. I want that energy flowing through my veins.
The warmth of Mal’s hand in mine grounds me as he leads me up the stairs and knocks softly on the door. A second later, it opens, revealing a man not much older than Mal, with long hair pulled up into a bun on top of his head, and a myriad of gorgeous, traditionalirezumitattoos covering his neck and arms.
“Mal,” he grins, opening the door wider.
“Hanzo,” Mal beams. “Thanks for seeing us at such a late hour.”
The man bows his head. “Of course, my friend,” he purrs in a beautifully accented voice. He turns to smile at me as he takes my hand. “And you are?”
“Freya.”
“Mine.”
Mal and I both answer at the same time, though our delivery is a little different. I say my name with a kind smile. Mal announces I am his with a dark edge in his voice.
Hanzo chuckles, releasing my hand and backing away with his hands raised.
“Well,” he chuckles. “That renders my next question of how you know each other unnecessary.” He turns and shakes his head. “Still the same Mal, I see.”
I snort. “Exactly how many girls has he brought here?”
Hanzo laughs as he turns and ushers us into the shop. “This grumpy motherfucker?” He makes a face. “I’m surprised he even knew how totalkto a woman.”
I grin, feeling my cheeks heat as Mal sighs.
“But I know him well enough to know he doesn’t tend to share.”
We follow Hanzo through the interior of the dimly lit shop until we get to a little room filled with incense, the walls covered in traditional art, with a Buddha statue against the far one. It’s dark in here, too, but one focused light hangs down low over a tattooing chair and a table full of tools. I recognize the tattoo gun, but not the small bundles of little sticks also laid out.
“Teboritechnique,” Hanzo grunts, nodding at the bundles. “The old way, like stick-and-poke.”
My eyes widen a little. Getting tattooedliterallyby hand, having someone repeatedly jamming a tiny bundle of needles into your skin sounds hardcore, even to me.
Hanzo chuckles. “I think tonight, we stick to the modern way.”
Mal gestures for me to sit and I do, my heart pounding in my chest as Hanzo prepares his tools. I swallow hard, the weight of what we’re about to do settling over me.
“Mal told me you have other ink already.”
I nod, lifting my shirt up over my ribs. A low growl emanates from Mal, who looks like he’s as pleased with me showing this small bit of skin to Hanzo as he’d be watching me blow the guy.
“Really?” I snicker, rolling my eyes at him.
He grunts, eyeing me with a tightness in his jaw. But after a few seconds, he lets it go.
“What do you think you’d like to get?” Mal asks, his voice quiet.
