Page 123 of Pretty Thing

“My soul belongs to you. I will spend every day proving that to you. There is nothing and no one in this world that will come between us.” I say, against her lips.

When she nods, I pick her up and carry her to the bathroom.

Maybe love isn’t measured by how tenderly you hold someone.

Maybe it’s measured by what you’re willing to burn to keep them. And I’m willing to destroy the world for my, Pretty Thing.

thirty-four

​. . .​

Felix

We spend hours wrapped up in each other’s arms and then I let her sleep for an hour. Rest is what you need to heal people say.

That’s bullshit.

I watched my mother lie in bed for weeks staring at the ceiling, and it didn’t help.

“Felix, where are we going,” Eden asks, her voice soft and defeated. “I just want to sleep.”

“And you will, but you need to do this first,” I say, picking her up.

She doesn’t protest as I carry her down the stairs to my studio. Her hair is still damp from the shower, and I can’t help but breathe in her scent.

Walking over to my workstation, I place Eden in the chair and then turn on my light. The blinds are closed on all the windows so no one randomly walking or driving by will get a show.

Eden looks up at me.

“You’re going to tattoo me now? I…I can’t,” she mumbles, trying to get off the chair, but I hold her down.

“Eden, do you trust me?”

Her pretty eyes slowly lift to mine.

“Yes.”

“Then trust me now.”

She takes a deep breath, and I wait for her to relax.

I’ve debated whether her tattoo should be as colorful and bright as the subject, but I think black-only is better.

Even though she just showered, I roll up the sleeve on her shirt, clip it in place, and then methodically clean and shave her arm before wiping it all away. Eden watches me with the same curiosity that a cat might watch a bird. Focused, a little twitchy, ready to spring into action and run.

Her nerves are fried, and she’s sad, but I plan on helping her with that right now.

“Did you know that many researchers believe that body art serves as a deeply therapeutic coping mechanism to process emotional pain and visually externalize trauma?”

I keep my voice soothing as I massage the transfer gel onto her skin.

“Really? How is that?”

“Pain is complicated and unique to each of us. But when the needle passes over your skin, it creates microtrauma, and your brain is triggered.”

“Triggered doesn’t sound like what I need at the moment.”

I smirk.