Chapter 38 Willow #2
Malice grunts. “It wasn’t that bad. I was just shit at tattooing back then. But it worked out.”
“And you got better,” I say, the words slipping out of my mouth before I can think better of it.
They all turn to look at me, and my face flushes a bit, but I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or the booze. Either way, I’m right. I remember watching Malice work on his tattoo the other day, how steady his hand was and the way he didn’t even flinch from the pain.
“Yeah,” he agrees finally. “I did.”
“Now he’s fucking covered in them,” Ransom says. “I mean we all have some, but not like Mal.”
I’ve seen Malice naked before, and I remember the flash of the tattoos that covered his arms and spread across his back, chest, and legs. I’ve seen some of Ransom’s since then too, but none of Victor’s.
“How many do each of you have?” I ask, sitting up in my chair.
Ransom stands up and takes his shirt off, smiling at me as he does. I’ve seen him shirtless before since we’re sharing a room, but I take full advantage of the fact that now I’m allowed to openly study him, leaning forward to get a better look.
His tattoos are all in black, except for one on the inside of his arm that’s done in splashes of green and white.
It’s a flower, and when I look closer, I can tell it’s a kind of lily.
Vines trail from it, wrapping around his arm and down to his wrist, circling it.
When I look closer, I can see that there are thorns in the vines that don’t touch the flower, leaving the flower itself seeming untouched and almost pristine.
“Our mom’s favorite flower,” he explains, his voice soft.
My heart aches at the love and pain in his voice, and I rise from the chair to come closer to him.
The rest of his tattoos have less purpose and form.
Like Malice, he has some that are just lines and patterns, not quite tribal, but blackwork designs that circle his other bicep and forearm.
A larger piece spreads across his back, and it looks like the arching branches of a tree, with flowers woven into and through them.
They’re oddly beautiful for being harsh black lines inked into his skin, and I reach out, trailing my fingers over them softly. Ransom shivers, and when he looks at me, his blue-green eyes almost seem to burn.
“What do you think, angel?”
“They’re beautiful,” I whisper.
A grin curves his lips, making him look boyish and almost a little shy. “Thanks. I’m glad you like them.”
“Your turn, Malice,” Victor says.
Malice stands up next, peeling off his shirt. I suck in a breath, and even though I’ve seen him naked before, this feels… different. We were different then, the two of us, and the situation was different. He was naked for some other woman then, and now he’s taking his shirt off for me.
It’s a silly thought, since he’s only taking his shirt off to show me his tattoos, but I can’t help but think it all the same.
Malice’s entire upper body is littered with various tattoos. I already know the one he got for their mother, her name and the date of her death on his arm, but the rest are more of a mystery.
I peer at the one he was working on when I found him the other day, and I notice that it’s not really anything.
Just images and shapes, swirls and lines, a kind of almost organized chaos that seems to fit with how Malice is most of the time.
The lines are sharp and cutting, but there are some gentle curves in there, little moments that break up all the darkness.
It’s interesting to see the growth in his abilities as a tattoo artist, from the ones that are older and more crude, a little or a lot faded with age depending on their quality, to the newer ones that look more clear.
Some of them dip down, trailing over his hip bones and the front of his stomach, to disappear into the waistband of his pants, and my face flushes a bit when I remember that his dick is tattooed too, unless I’m mistaken.
“So many,” I finally breathe, and unlike with Ransom, I don’t reach out to touch Malice.
“I like tattoos,” he says simply, lifting one muscled shoulder in a shrug.
That makes me smile. “I see why. They kind of suit you in a weird way.”
I don’t know how to describe it, but something about them just fits with his whole… everything.
He catches my gaze, and although he doesn’t look boyish like Ransom did, something hot and sort of possessive glints in his gray eyes—as if my approval means something to him. Then he looks away from me, lifting a chin at Victor.
“Now you.”
I half expect Victor to decline, even though he was the one who suggested Malice take a turn.
But to my surprise, he stands up and peels off his shirt.
Unlike how Malice and Ransom just took theirs off and tossed them onto the couch, he does it with much more precision, tugging his dark Henley off with one hand and then folding it and setting it down on the couch.
When he straightens back up, I find myself gaping at him.
I’ve never seen him anything less than fully dressed before, and now that I’m finally seeing him shirtless, I’m amazed by how ripped he is.
It’s nowhere close to how jacked and intimidating Malice looks, but he has a whole lot more muscles than I expected.
For all that time in front of a computer, he’s not soft at all, and it’s clear that when it comes to a physical fight, Victor could definitely hold his own.
A memory flashes through my mind of him taking down Carl in my apartment, and I realize I’ve seen firsthand how that ruthless, almost robotic precision of his can combine with his physical strength to be deadly.
Almost unconsciously, I step closer to Victor, curiosity burning inside me. He has some newer tattoos, but a lot of them look old and very rough. They’re a totally different style than the newer ones he has, and I tip my head to one side, glancing between him and Malice as I make the comparison.
“Malice didn’t do these,” I finally say. “Did he?”
“No,” he acknowledges. “He didn’t.”
I reach out like I’m going to touch one of the older ones, but then stop with my hand hovering near his upper arm.
He’s never touched me, and I’ve never touched him.
I’m not entirely sure whether that was purposeful on his part or just coincidental, but I’m vividly aware that it’s a line we haven’t crossed.
So instead of trailing my fingers over faded ink, I just look at it.
It was maybe once a cross or some kind of symbol, but now it looks like a faded bruise, almost, dark and splotchy against Victor’s skin. It was definitely done by an amateur, not a professional tattoo artist.
“Did you do these ones?” I ask quietly, tilting my head up to look at Vic.
He gazes down at me for a second, then shakes his head.
“My father gave them to me,” he says. “A long time ago.”
There’s no emotion in his voice, but I can sense the heaviness in the words anyway. Everything that has to do with their dad seems steeped in hurt and violence.
Malice told me that their dad was trying to shape Victor into a perfect warrior—his second in command—and that he basically tortured him to make him strong enough for it.
I know there’s more to the story than that, things that probably only Victor could tell me about what he experienced at his father’s hands.
I’m not sure he ever will though.
All I’ve gotten from him is the vague sense that someone he loved hurt him, and I wonder what the tattoos were supposed to symbolize. Were they used to cause more pain? To brand him so that he couldn’t forget who he belonged to and was supposed to be working for?
I don’t know, but I suddenly hate this man I’ve never met, and I find myself viciously glad that the brothers killed him. Malice was right. He did deserve it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding Victor’s gaze.
I’m not sure if he knows what Malice told me, and I almost feel bad that I know this thing about him that he didn’t tell me himself, but then I remember that he knows a lot about me that I didn’t tell him either. So maybe it doesn’t matter.
He nods, his face unreadable as his eyes cut away from me.
“Our dad left his mark in a lot of ways,” Ransom says, breaking the heavy silence. “Maybe that’s why we all got tattoos for our mom. To try to make sure she’d left her mark too.”
He looks down at the flower on his arm, and I smile at the idea of that. It’s clear she did leave her mark on them, with the way they wanted to avenge her death so fiercely, and Malice being willing to go to jail for killing their father to make sure she didn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“When did you start tattooing?” I ask, settling back on the couch and glancing over at Malice.
“Not seriously until I was in prison,” he replies.
“I fucked around as a kid since other kids were doing it, but that was different. Most of these”—he lifts the arm that doesn’t have the growing tattoo on it—“I got when I was locked up. Either from other people or when I was learning to do them myself.”
“What about you?” Ransom arches a brow at me. “Do you have any ink you’re not showing us?”
I glance at Victor, because I know with his cameras in my apartment, he’s seen me naked. Hell, Ransom has probably seen enough of me at this point to know that I don’t have anything I’m trying to hide, and Malice has too. Just the scars, and those are nothing like the ink each of these men wear.
“No.” I shake my head. “You know I don’t. I’ve never really considered getting one before. And even if I had, I’m not sure I would’ve been brave enough to do it.”
Malice makes a noise in his throat, and when my gaze darts to him, he’s looking at me with something gleaming in his stormy eyes. Without saying a word, he walks out of the room, heading toward the garage. When he comes back, he has his tattoo gun and the equipment to go with it.
My eyes widen, my heart starting to race. “What’s that for?”