Chapter 20 Rhett
Caius watches me with the placid calm of a man who’s never lost a bet. “How long do you need to lay low?”
I shrug. “Two, three days. By then the Board will either believe the story or they’ll be busy dealing with the fallout.”
Slade snorts. “You mean the corpse?”
I glance at him. “Valence won’t be a problem. Bam will see to that.”
Caius smiles. “Old habits die hard.”
I smirk, then cross to the bar and pour a shot of something expensive into a glass.
I sip, then say, “I’ll have the Boys deal with the Board.
Tell them that Isolde and I are on a ‘mini honeymoon.’ They’ll all believe it.
‘Doing my duty’ and all that shit. Every creep in the network will assume I’m staking my claim, not plotting treason. ”
Slade grins around his cigarette. “They’ll buy it. She was a legend before she even made it to the ritual.”
“Board wants to keep the illusion alive, not acknowledge that one of their own got snuffed by a student.” I drain the glass and set it down with a click.
“They’ll run damage control before they ever take a run at me, even if they suspect it.
Now that I’m sworn in, it’ll look bad to the Funders to kill one of their own. ”
Caius leans forward, arms folded. “You’re gonna have to be real careful, Rhett.”
“I know.”
He studies me, and I know what he’s seeing: I’m not just a Boy anymore. I’m a man, one who will do anything for my girl, just like he did. He approves, even if he doesn’t say it. This is how our world works—violence, then order.
“You’ll be safe here… for a while,” he says, and it’s not a platitude.
“There’s one other thing.”
Caius arches an eyebrow. “Name it.”
“Do you still have the old tattoo kit?”
Caius laughs. “Was wondering when you’d ask.”
He crosses to the far side of the study and opens a wooden cabinet. He slides open a drawer and pulls out a battered leather case. The thing looks like it belonged to a 1920s sideshow artist—worn, scuffed, but every buckle still sharp. He sets it on the desk and flips it open.
Rows of sterilized needles, two power supplies, vials of ink in black, red, and blue. There’s a set of gloves, surgical scissors, a bottle of hospital-grade antiseptic and clear skins.
I take the kit, thumb the catch on the lid. “If they want to mark her as property, I’ll do it myself. On my terms.”
Caius nods, not quite proud but definitely impressed. “She’ll know it’s yours.”
I meet his eyes. “She already does.”
Slade snickers. “Careful, Grey. You’re starting to sound romantic.”
“Fuck off, Slade.”
He salutes me with his lighter, then turns to the window and watches the trees.
Caius stands there, hands in his pockets, gaze steady. “You’re really not coming with us, are you?”
“Doubt it.”
He studies me for a long time, then offers a hand. I take it, because this is the only real ritual that ever mattered.
“If you need anything else,” he says, voice gruff, “you know where to find me.”
I nod, then leave the study, the weight of the kit in my palm. In the corridor, I pause for a second and look back through the door. Caius is already pouring another drink, already planning the next move. Slade lights his cigarette and flips me the bird.
It’s almost funny.
I walk down the hall, clutching the tattoo kit.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Everything is silent. I cross the main hall and find her curled on the kitchen bench, asleep with her arms folded around her chest, knees drawn up to her chin.
Her head rests on a stack of paper napkins, hair wild and matted, lips parted in a way that betrays the child she used to be before all of this.
In sleep, Isolde looks defenseless—until you notice her right hand, curled into a fist even now, knuckles white, ready for the next attack.
For a moment, I stand there, just watching. The moonlight outlines her cheekbones, the faint scar under her jaw, the birthmark that hides in the shadow of her left collarbone. I want to touch her, but I don’t. I want to wake her, but I wait.
This is the real problem: I know what it means to want, and I know what it costs to get it.
I set the tattoo kit on the table and clear my throat.
She wakes instantly, eyes wide, shoulders tensed. Her left hand darts out, searching for a weapon that isn’t there, before she realizes it’s me. She relaxes, but only by a hair. “What time is it?” she mumbles, voice rough from sleep.
“Almost four. Sorry.”
She shifts, rubbing her eyes. “Sleep now?”
I shake my head. “Not until I do something.”
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.”
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.