Chapter 26 Ink And Intentions #2
"Looks good," I confirm, and then I'm up and crossing the small space to Rosemarie's table, where she's currently making sounds that suggest imminent death.
"I'm going to die," she repeats, her voice muffled against the headrest. "This is how it ends. Death by needle. Put that on my tombstone."
"You have multiple tattoos already," I point out, settling into a crouch beside her table so I can see her face. "How is this worse?"
"Those were different." She squeezes the stress ball so hard I'm surprised it doesn't burst. "Those were powered by righteous anger and the need to rebel. This is powered by... by..."
"Love?" Sage suggests mildly, not looking up from her work.
Rosemarie makes a strangled sound that might be agreement or might be another death rattle. It's hard to tell.
I reach out and take her free hand, the one not currently murdering the stress ball. Her fingers are cold and trembling slightly, but they close around mine immediately, grip tight enough to leave marks.
"Hey." I keep my voice low, soothing. "Almost done. You're doing great."
"No," she whimpers. "I'm dying. There's a difference."
Dramatic little thing. So brave about everything else—bounty hunters and threatening messages and running from her entire life—but put a tattoo needle to her wrist and she turns into a puddle of melodrama.
It's adorable. I'm not going to tell her that, because she'd probably bite me, but it is.
"Five more minutes," Sage announces. "Maybe less. Just the shading left."
Rosemarie whimpers again, and I make a decision.
I lean in close, letting my lips brush against her ear. Her scent fills my lungs—cinnamon and coffee and vanilla, sharp with stress but still intoxicating. "Why don't I reward you afterward," I murmur, "if you're a good girl for five minutes?"
Her eyes fly open, meeting mine. The pain is still there, but there's something else now too—interest, heat, that spark of challenge that I've come to associate with her. "What kind of reward?"
"The kind that makes the pain worth it."
She considers this for a moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then she huffs out a breath and nods. "Fine. Five minutes. But it better be a really good reward."
"Wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Sweetness."
Sage laughs from her position at Rosemarie's wrist, the sound bright and knowing. "Feel free to use the back room for your... reward situation," she offers without looking up. "Just turn the cameras off first. Don't need to see y'all's business."
Rosemarie's face goes crimson. I just shrug.
"Could always hack the footage afterward," I muse. "Get it for the pack."
Sage rolls her eyes. "Probably could, knowing you military types. All right, beautiful—" She sets down her machine and reaches for the wrap supplies. "All done. Take a look before I cover it up."
Rosemarie sits up slowly, like she's not entirely convinced the ordeal is over. I move to stand beside her as she extends her left arm, examining the fresh ink on her inner wrist.
Three hearts. A butterfly. A crown with stars.
It's beautiful. Small enough to be subtle, detailed enough to be meaningful. The placement is perfect—right over her pulse point, where the beat of her heart will forever echo against the symbol of what we're building.
I extend my own right arm, holding it beside hers. Our tattoos mirror each other—same design, opposite wrists. Like puzzle pieces. Like two halves of something whole.
"The others liked the design," I tell her, watching her face as she studies our matching marks. "They're going to get it too. Elias can come in next week—he's off rotation. Julian will do his after the shoot wraps."
She looks up at me, eyes wide. "Wait. They were serious about the matching tattoos? From my list?"
"We weren't going to let you down, Rosemarie." I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not about this. Not about anything on that list, if we can help it."
She's quiet for a moment, staring at our wrists side by side. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"What if... things don't work out?"
The question hangs in the air between us. It's the question we've all been avoiding—the elephant in every room, the uncertainty lurking beneath every tender moment. Valentine's Day is approaching fast. Our arrangement has an expiration date. Nothing about this is guaranteed.
I shrug, smiling down at her. Then I lean in and press a tender kiss to her lips—soft, unhurried, a promise sealed with touch.
"No regrets, Sweetness," I whisper against her mouth. "Whatever happens. No regrets."
She melts into me for a moment, her hands coming up to grip my shirt. When she pulls back, there's something new in her eyes. Resolution, maybe. Or hope.
"So," I murmur, letting my lips brush her ear again. "Want that reward now?"
She smirks—that wicked, challenging expression that never fails to make my blood heat. "Lead the way, big guy."
"Go to the washroom first. Meet me in the back room." I wink. "Five minutes."
She grins and slides off the table, movements careful of her freshly wrapped wrist. I head to the front counter to settle the bill while she disappears down the hallway toward the restrooms.
? ? ?
~ROSEMARIE~
I'm grinning like an idiot as I slip into the bathroom, my freshly inked wrist throbbing with a pleasant ache that reminds me this is real. I actually did this. I actually got a matching tattoo with one of my Alphas. With all of them, eventually.
Three hearts. Three Alphas. One terrified, hopeful Omega in the middle of it all.
I pull out my phone to check the time—Tank said five minutes, and I intend to make him wait exactly that long just to be difficult—and freeze.
New message. Unknown number.
My stomach drops even before I open it, dread pooling cold and heavy in my gut.
I already know what it's going to say. I already know who it's from, even without a name attached.
The threatening messages have been escalating for weeks—vague warnings becoming specific promises, distance closing like a noose tightening.
"The clock is ticking."
Four words. That's all. But they carry the weight of everything I've been running from—my family, my ex-pack, the arranged match waiting to drag me back into a life of gilded captivity.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, my reflection ghostly in the phone's surface. The bathroom is quiet except for the distant buzz of tattoo machines and the muffled music from the main floor. Valentine's decorations dangle from the ceiling here too—paper hearts that suddenly seem mocking.
The clock is ticking. Like I don't know that. Like I haven't been counting the days until Valentine's Day, until our arrangement officially ends, until I have to face whatever comes next.
But here's the thing they don't understand—the thing my family has never understood, because they've never seen me as anything more than property to be traded.
I'm not the same Omega who ran scared in the night.
I delete the message with a firm swipe of my thumb. Watch it disappear into digital oblivion. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
I'm not going back to those fuckers. Not now. Not ever. They can send all the threatening messages they want. They can hire more bounty hunters. They can show up on my doorstep with legal documents and family obligations and everything they think gives them power over me.
It won't matter. Because I have something now that I've never had before. I have people worth fighting for. I have a pack that sees me as more than a commodity. I have three Alphas who are getting matching tattoos with me because they wanted to, not because it benefited them somehow.
I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—really look, past the smudged eyeliner and the windswept hair and the exhaustion that never quite fades. What I see surprises me.
I see someone who looks happy. Someone who looks like she might actually be finding her place in the world. Someone who's starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserves good things.
That's worth fighting for. That's worth risking everything for.
I pocket my phone and take a steadying breath.
Outside this bathroom, Tank is waiting in the back room with a promised reward.
Outside this building, my Alphas are scattered across Oakridge Hollow—Elias at the firehouse, Julian probably reviewing proofs from his shoot, all of them carrying pieces of my heart I didn't even know I'd given away.
And somewhere out there, my past is lurking. Waiting. Planning.
Let them plan. Let them scheme. Let them think they can drag me back to the life I escaped.
I'm done running. I'm done hiding. I'm done letting fear make my decisions for me.
I check my wrist one more time—the plastic wrap crinkling as I move, the fresh ink throbbing beneath—and smile. Three hearts. A butterfly. A crown.
Freedom. Sovereignty. Being the queen of my own story.
I push open the bathroom door and head toward the back room, toward Tank, toward whatever reward is waiting for me. My phone stays silent in my pocket. My past stays firmly behind me.
This fake relationship is becoming something real.
I can feel it in every tender moment, every protective gesture, every time one of them looks at me like I'm something precious.
And I want to fight for it. I want to see where this goes.
I want to stop being so afraid of wanting things that I never let myself have them.
I want to fight for... this fake relationship that could potentially become real.