Chapter Nine
The hum of Ursula’s tattoo needle filled the parlor, its steady buzz a familiar sound beneath the low thrum of the building’s wards.
The parlor itself smelled of ink and antiseptic, overlaid by the faint bite of incense that never quite burned away.
The walls were crowded with framed sketches and inked flash designs, some bold and modern, others ancient symbols woven from runes and Celtic knots.
A couch sagged near the front window beneath stacks of magazines, and the floor was polished wood scarred by decades of boots and chair legs.
Ursula sat hunched on her stool, utterly focused, her dark hair tied back in a severe knot that left her pale profile sharp as carved stone.
She was finishing a sprawling commission she’d been working on for weeks—a pair of immense angel wings spread across the thick back of a burly construction worker who gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in his lap.
Sweat rolled down his temples, the muscles in his shoulders trembling, but he said nothing—Ursula’s reputation for precision and her lack of tolerance for whining kept most clients silent.
The needle moved with ruthless grace, line by line, ink sinking into skin in dark, steady sweeps.
Saffron perched on the edge of the counter nearby, nursing a cooling mug of coffee.
She liked this hour—the parlor alive with small sounds, Ursula in her element, the city outside still half asleep.
But beneath the familiar rhythm, something in her blood stirred uneasily.
Her cat was restless, pacing inside her ribs.
Her mismatched eyes tracked the window where sunlight slanted through, fractured by the shifting wards woven into the building.
The knock came then, rattling the front door’s glass with a dull, resonant thud.
The client flinched, his shoulders jerking beneath Ursula’s hand. A curse slipped through his teeth. Ursula didn’t so much as blink. She lifted the needle, set it aside with care, and blotted the man’s inked skin with practiced precision. Only then did she look up, her gaze cutting to Saffron.
“You feel that?” Ursula’s voice was even, but the edge beneath it was steel.
Saffron set her mug down, rising slowly. Her skin prickled, wards whispering like teeth dragged over stone. “Like nails down my spine,” she admitted. The cat inside her was yowling, unsettled.
The knock came again, this time slower, deliberate. Arrogant.
The client shifted nervously, trying to crane his neck. “You want me to—”
“Stay where you are,” Ursula cut in, firm and unyielding. She dabbed his skin once more, though her hand was already curling, ready to summon flame. “Ink doesn’t wait for bad manners.”
Saffron crossed the room, steps light, shoulders squared. Her magic coiled under her skin, sharp and ready. She was halfway to the door when the protection wards she had placed over the entrance shivered and collapsed, and without invitation, it swung open.
A man stepped into the parlor like it was his own.
Tall, broad-shouldered, immaculate. His charcoal suit looked hand-cut, the black silk tie glinting faintly in the light.
His hair was slicked back, his shoes polished to a mirror shine.
But it wasn’t his clothing that stole the air—it was his presence.
Heavy. Suffocating. Like oil pouring across water.
Even the wards seemed to recoil. His smile was practiced, a perfect curve of white teeth, but his eyes—his eyes were cold glass over something older, darker.
The construction worker froze in Ursula’s chair, every muscle taut. Ursula straightened slowly, setting down her cloth. Saffron stopped just short of the counter, her chin tilting high.
“Good morning,” the man said smoothly, his gaze sweeping the parlor as though appraising an asset. When his eyes landed on Saffron, they lingered. “Adrian Veynar. Owner of this property as of last week, and your landlord.”
The silence stretched. The client growled audibly, obviously not a fan of entitled rich men. Saffron’s pulse thundered, her fingers curling at her sides. “This property doesn’t belong to you.”
He chuckled, low and cultured, before sliding a leather folder onto the counter with a snap. “The paperwork says otherwise. Effective immediately, you and your ... menagerie are trespassing.”
The folder pulsed faintly with power. The ink in the contracts shimmered, laced with wards, black magic woven into every line. Saffron’s gut twisted. She knew that taste.
“Council,” she hissed.
His smile sharpened. “At last, someone remembers. Yes, girl. I am what remains when time forgets to erase its mistakes. And you,” his gaze darkened, almost hungry, “you are in my way.”
Before she could move, he lifted his hand. Black fire lashed across the counter in a crackling arc.
The client yelped and nearly bolted from the chair.
Saffron snapped her hand up, golden threads of light weaving into a shield that shimmered in the air.
The blast slammed into it, rattling the walls until frames and sketches tumbled to the floor.
Her arms shook, bones screaming with the force of holding it.
“Not in my shop,” Ursula snarled, stepping forward. Fire burst into her palms, her voice carrying the weight of a curse.
The back stairwell thundered. Willow flew into the room, Jacob and Liam right behind her. Isaac and Nolan came last, both men growling, eyes glowing, wolves prowling just beneath their skin. The scent of them—iron and storm, pine and clover—rushed through her, steadying her trembling bones.
“Who the fuck is this?” Nolan’s voice cracked like a whip. He stalked closer, every line of him coiled to strike.
Isaac moved silently to her side, his hand brushing her arm before he slid in front of her. Protective. Unyielding. “Stay back,” he ordered softly, though his eyes never left Veynar.
Veynar sneered, like he was watching children play at war. “More of you. How quaint.” His wrist flicked, magic sparking to life again.
This time, the coven was ready. Willow’s light blazed, Ursula’s fire roared, Brielle’s chaotic purple sparks ripped jagged through the air. One of them caught him squarely across the shoulder, and she laughed breathlessly, “Another direct hit for me, asshole!”
Veynar snarled back, “Little girl, your magic’s as undisciplined as your tongue,” even as he staggered. Their powers braided together into a barrier that shoved his darkness back. The air screamed, sharp with ozone and smoke.
Saffron’s fury broke loose. She snapped her will outward, golden fire slamming into his chest. His suit caught, silk and wool blistering in jagged streaks of flame. He cursed, staggering toward the open door, hands slapping at the fabric.
“You’ll regret this,” he spat, voice guttural now, veneer stripped away. “All of you. Be out in the next forty-eight hours, or I will have you forcibly removed!”
Then he vanished, smoke curling in his wake.
The parlor fell into silence. The wards trembled, bruised but holding.
The air stank of scorched paper and charred silk, acrid enough to sting her throat.
The client sat frozen in Ursula’s chair, wide-eyed, ink half-finished across his back.
Saffron sagged against the counter, chest heaving.
Her magic snapped back into her body, leaving her trembling from the recoil.
Isaac was on her instantly, his hands gripping her arms, his face carved with fear. “You could have been killed.” His voice was raw, breaking in the middle, as if he’d already imagined the sight of her falling and never rising again.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, though the crack in her voice betrayed her. Her gaze flicked to Nolan—his shoulders rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths, his wolf pacing just under the surface. She could taste his fury and his fear like copper in the air.
Nolan’s growl was low, dangerous. “Don’t you ever do that again, kitten. Don’t you ever stand between us and danger like that.”
Her lips parted to argue, but the words dissolved under the weight of their anguish. The terror etched in both of their faces stopped her breath cold, and her cat curled inside her chest, keening at the thought of leaving them broken.
Nolan stepped closer, gripping her hand as though it anchored him. “Bind yourself to us,” he demanded hoarsely. “By the old ways. Handfast with us—today.”
Her heart stuttered, a thousand memories flashing—nights of blood and sacrifice, centuries lost, these two men finding her again against impossible odds. “You’re serious?” she whispered, though she already knew the answer.
“Deadly.” Isaac’s thumb brushed her cheek, trembling with the force of what he held inside. “We almost lost you. We don’t want to risk another day without you bonded to us in every possible way.” His voice cracked, softer now. “We need you tied to us, body and soul.”
Tears blurred her vision. The words rose in her throat, fierce and aching.
“I already am, but, yes. Yes, I will.” She swallowed hard, finding her strength.
“But not today. Not while the Council still hunts, not while shifters remain bound by curses. When this is done—when the Stone has ended the curse and our people are free, and we have ended these bastards for good—then we will handfast. And it will be a binding the world will never forget.”
Their breaths caught, a mix of protest and awe.
Nolan’s eyes burned as he pulled her against him, his kiss a desperate brand.
Isaac’s mouth followed a heartbeat later, claiming and reverent.
The three of them tangled together, heat and love and raw survival colliding until she thought she might break apart.
The world blurred into hands and lips, whispered vows and fierce promises. Her back hit the counter, her body lifted easily into Nolan’s arms.
From the chair, the client blinked rapidly and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.
A tear slipped free anyway. “Best damn tattoo parlor in the world,” he muttered thickly.
“Sure, you’ve got to duck the fireworks and the flames flying out of people’s fingers, but, hell, worth it for the view.
And the wings.” His gaze dropped to the ink across his back he could see in the mirrors set up around him and he choked on a laugh. “Yeah, definitely worth it.”
Ursula, without missing a beat, handed him a tissue. Her mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “Tell all your friends.”
“Council or not, curse or not,” Nolan rasped, eyes wild, “we’re not waiting another damn second to remind you you’re ours.”
They carried her toward the back, the scent of smoke and the echo of Adrian Veynar’s threat fading behind them.
****
Morning light filtered through the blinds of the tattoo parlor, warm and golden, spilling across the black leather chairs and the faint hum of Ursula’s machine.
Nolan sat back, his left hand stretched out, while Ursula leaned close, needle buzzing steadily as she worked the design into his skin.
The sting was sharp, grounding, a reminder that he was alive—that Saffron had survived—and that they had a future worth binding together.
Isaac sat in the chair beside him, his jaw tight, but his eyes soft as he watched the dark lines take shape. The Celtic knotwork Ursula had chosen wound together in intricate loops, endless and eternal, the mark of a man handfasted to the woman he loved. Their woman.
“You’re sure you want this?” Ursula asked, though her voice carried more ritual than doubt. She wasn’t just inking them—she was weaving protection into every line. “Once it’s done, it can’t be undone.”
“Good,” Nolan said, his voice steady. “We don’t want it undone.”
Isaac nodded. “This is for her. Always.”
Ursula smiled faintly, though her eyes carried a shadow. “If only I could find my future. I ink blessings into everyone else’s skin, but the Goddess hasn’t seen fit to give me mates yet.”
Saffron, leaning against the counter with her tea, spoke softly. “It will come, Ursula. Don’t lose faith. The Goddess works in her own time.”
Brielle snorted from her seat on the counter, swinging her legs. “Not me. I’m destined to be single forever. One asshole ex was enough to prove the point.”
Ursula shook her head, lips quirking. “You’re not destined to be single, Bri. You’re just destined to be stubborn.”
The room eased with laughter, the sound a balm after the chaos of the night before.
When Ursula finally set down her machine, Nolan flexed his hand, staring at the knotwork. It felt alive, humming with protective energy, as if the ink itself recognized the bond he and Isaac had claimed with Saffron.
Jacob cleared his throat from where he sat flipping through records at the desk. “Why is the Council so obsessed with this building anyway? I get it’s prime real estate, but they acted like it was more than that.”
Ursula came over to join Saffie at the counter, lowering her voice.
The two women leaned over the papers Jacob had left open.
“Its history isn’t that long,” Ursula murmured.
“Records only go back about seventy years, when the building was first converted from a warehouse. Nothing to hint at why it matters so much.”
Saffie frowned, her tea cooling in her hands. “Which makes it worse. If the Council’s chasing a place with barely seventy years of written history, then the truth must be buried deeper than any record we’ve got.”
Willow tilted her head, thoughtful. “What if it isn’t just the building? What if it’s what’s under it?”
They all turned to look at her. Nolan frowned. “Under it? You mean the land?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Willow said, moving closer. “Think about it. Every time they’ve come for us, they’ve pressed hard here. What if the Druid Stone isn’t out there somewhere? What if it’s been here the whole time?”
Silence fell, the thought heavy. Jacob spun his laptop around, typing furiously, searching city archives.
For a man who had been locked in a void for two hundred years he was very good with, and kind of addicted to, technology.
Within minutes, he let out a low whistle.
“She’s right. This building was constructed over New York’s old catacombs—tunnels tied to ancient druidic blood rites.
If the Stone’s anywhere, it’s down there. ”
Nolan exchanged a look with Isaac, his stomach tightening. “Then we’d better be ready. Because if it’s here, Adrian’s not going to stop until he has it.”
Isaac flexed his hand, the ink gleaming darkly against his skin. “Then he’ll have to go through us first.”