Chapter 8
Benji
Jude has been staring at my neck for the entire car ride, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to strangle him with his own seatbelt.
"I’m not talking about it," I say for the fourth time, glaring out the window at the passing storefronts. My fingers twitch toward my neck. I force them down into my lap and pretend the phantom itch isn't there.
"You have literal teeth marks on your neck," Jude says, twisting fully around in the passenger seat like traffic laws are a suggestion. "Alpha teeth. Claiming-bite teeth. And you're not talking about it?"
"Correct."
"That is a whole dental record on your throat, and I want a name."
"You want a lot of things. Turn around before Rhys has to hit the brakes and you go through the windshield."
Rhys, to his credit, keeps his mouth shut. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching mine for a fraction of a second—calm, steady, and reading way more than I'd like—before returning to the road.
Shay is sitting next to me in the back, and he hasn't said a damn word.
He saw it this morning when I walked into the kitchen.
His eyes landed on the mark, lingered for exactly two seconds, and then his jaw tightened.
He turned around and poured his coffee. He knows.
He knows who, and he knows why, and his silence is currently a lot louder than Jude's yelling.
The bite throbs. It’s a dull, heavy pulse right at the juncture of my neck and shoulder.
Every time I try to forget about it, my traitorous biology hums with a sickeningly satisfied warmth.
I saw it in the bathroom mirror this morning—angry, red, the distinct ridges of teeth bruised into my skin like a fucking signature.
I threw on a high-collared shirt. Not because I'm ashamed.
Because I'm pissed, and I don't owe anyone an explanation.
"At least I didn't get a secret tattoo and hide it for six months," I snap, deploying the only weapon I have: distraction.
Jude practically vibrates out of his seat. "A WHAT?"
"Benji," Shay says. His voice could freeze vodka. "I will end you."
"You have a tattoo?" Jude shrieks. "Where? What is it? Since when? Why am I the last to know everything?"
"You're not the last," Shay mutters, glaring at the back of Rhys’s headrest. "No one was supposed to know."
"I know because I have eyes and you wore a crop top to Milo's barbecue," I say.
"That was a tucked shirt that rode up."
"Same difference. My condolences."
Jude looks like he's about to hyperventilate from the sheer volume of withheld gossip, but Rhys pulls into a parking spot and shifts the car into park.
"We're here," he announces, sounding like a man who has accepted his fate.
Jude's outrage instantly evaporates, replaced by the manic energy of a guy about to get his first tattoo.
The shop is called Iron Works. Jude shoves the glass door open, and the smell hits me immediately—green soap, ink, and sterilized metal.
It's a familiar scent. Comforting, usually.
A coil machine buzzes from the back, competing with the rock music playing from a corner speaker.
The flash art on the walls is actually good.
I'm inspecting a blackwork sleeve design when Jude marches up to the front counter.
The beta behind it—a massive, forty-something guy with traditional sailor ink creeping up his jawline—looks at Jude like he’s a very loud, very annoying bird. "Park?" the guy asks, glancing at an iPad.
"That's me. I'm ready. I've been ready for months. Let's do this."
The beta—Mars, according to the name stitched on his apron—grunts and points toward a station in the back. Jude practically skips toward it.
I’m still looking at the flash art when Shay’s hand clamps around my forearm. Hard.
I turn to tell him to back off, but the look on his face stops me. It’s not just anger. It’s a sharp, hyper-focused recognition, and he’s not looking at me.
I follow his gaze.
Knox is standing at a station in the middle of the room.
He’s wiping down a leather tattoo chair with a paper towel.
He’s wearing a black apron over a dark tee, sleeves pushed up, his own ink on full display.
No beanie today. He looks... normal. Like a guy who goes to work and buys groceries and exists in the daylight.
Last night he was shaking, burying his face in my neck. Today he’s disinfecting a workstation.
Then he looks up.
His eyes lock onto me like I'm the only thing in the room. The paper towel goes still in his hand. For a split second, he just looks wrecked—recognition, hunger, and a heavy shadow of guilt. My scent spikes before I can lock it down. The mark on my neck burns.
Knox’s gaze drops to my throat. Just a flicker. But whatever he sees there makes his jaw clench, and a phantom pulse shoots straight from the bite down to my toes.
"You have got to be kidding me," Shay hisses, his grip on my arm tightening. He looks from Knox to my neck, the math clicking into place behind his eyes.
Jude is already settling into Mars's chair when he notices the staring contest. He looks at me, looks at Knox, looks at the bite.
"That's HIM?" Jude yells. Every head in the shop turns.
"Jude," Rhys says quietly, putting a heavy hand on his mate's shoulder.
"The tattoo guy?" Jude points, completely ignoring Rhys. "Benji, the alpha who ghosted you and bit your neck, is the guy working at the shop where I'm getting tattooed right now?"
"I’m not talking about it," I say. My voice is flat. Deadpan.
"There is literally a bite mark on your throat telling an entire story, Benjamin."
"Don't call me Benjamin."
Mars sighs. He gives Knox a long, exhausted look and goes back to prepping Jude's arm.
Knox is trying very hard to look like he has his shit together. He sets the spray bottle down. Picks up a bottle of green soap. Sets it down. His jaw is tight, his movements stiff. He won't look at me, which is fine, because every time he does, my body does something humiliating.
Rhys stands near Jude's chair, arms crossed. He watches Knox. Knox finally meets his gaze. Neither of them says a word. They just stare at each other until Rhys finally asks, "Is this real?" Quiet. Assessing.
Knox doesn't blink. He just holds Rhys's eyes, his expression stripping away the cocky bullshit. Rhys gives a single, tight nod. Not a blessing, but not a threat either.
Shay is leaning against the wall. He catches Knox's eye. "Still haven't left, I see," Shay says, his voice like a scalpel.
Knox looks at him. "No."
Jude's outline takes almost an hour. An hour of me trapped in Knox's space.
I pace. I look at the flash on the walls.
Some of it is his—I can tell by the line work, the heavy shading that matches the ink on his own arms. My stupid graphic design brain catalogs it.
He's good. Fucking talented. It’s infuriating.
He walks past me once to get to the back room. The space between the counter and his station is narrow, and his scent hits me like a physical blow. Ink, metal, and that dark, heavy alpha smell that makes my knees want to give out. I grip the edge of the glass display case.
He doesn't touch me. But as he passes, he murmurs, "Benji." Just my name. Low and rough, exactly how he sounded last night. A hot shiver rips down my spine. I stare at a skull design on the wall and grind my teeth. My hand is shaking. I shove it in my pocket.
Mars wraps Jude's arm and grunts out some aftercare instructions. Jude hops down, rolling his sleeve over the plastic wrap. He turns to Knox.
"We're going to have a longer conversation about this," Jude warns.
Knox just nods. He takes it.
Rhys gives Knox one last assessing look before steering Jude toward the exit. Shay walks out without giving Knox a single glance, which somehow hits harder than Jude's threats.
I'm the last one. My boots feel like they're made of lead. I make it to the door and stop. I don't turn around, but I can feel Knox staring at the back of my neck.
Behind me, Mars's voice rumbles, low and flat. "You want to keep your chair, you keep your personal life off my floor."
Knox doesn't answer.
I shove the glass door open. The cool street air hits my face, and my omega immediately whines at the loss of Knox's scent. I want to punch myself in the throat.
Jude is already furiously typing on his phone. "I'm texting Milo," he announces. "And Soren. And possibly the National Guard."
Shay is just watching me. I don't have a snarky comeback. My fingers drift up to the ridges on my neck, pressing into the bruised skin. A fresh wave of heat washes over me. I drop my hand fast, but Shay sees it. He doesn't say a word.
I stare down the sidewalk. Knox is just on the other side of that glass, a real person with a real life, and I'm running out of places to hide from him.