Chapter 26 Ramsey
Ramsey
I've spent too many fucking nights staring at the ceiling, thinking about her soft skin under my hands, but tonight I'm staring at something else entirely. Her bucket list. The pages lie open on the coffee table, some items crossed off in that loopy handwriting of hers.
One in particular glares at me, but all I can think is if I do it, I’m sealing her fate. I’ll be making a choice, my choice, and I won’t be able to let her go after that.
Skipping right over that one, I land on
Get a tattoo
The thought of someone else’s hands touching her skin and inking it makes my own skin crawl. I want to fucking body check someone.
My jaw clenches so hard I can hear my teeth grinding. Some fucking artist touching her for hours, needle to skin, watching her wince and breathe through the pain. Someone else creating something that will be on her body until the day she dies.
I think the fuck not.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up my regular guy. Well, the Blackwood regular guy. I have no idea how the fuck Penn got involved with him years ago, but Nico is fucking good. Fucking exceptional, actually. His shop has a year-long waiting list.
Need you at the house. It’s important.
Nico
This better be life or death, baby boy. I’ve got clients booked.
I’ll make it worth your time.
Yea yea yea, you fucking Blackwoods always do. I’ll be there in an hour. I gotta finish up here.
I toss my phone onto the couch and lean back, rubbing my hands over my face.
If I do this, if I mark her skin myself, it crosses a line I've been trying to respect.
It's one thing to help her with the other items on her list—things that are experiences, moments that fade.
A tattoo is different. It's my mark on her, permanent and unchangeable.
If I put my art on her body, I won't be able to let her go. Ever.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I was never actually going to be able to let her go. It’s just something I told myself over and over to keep me semi sane.
I already know I'm too far gone, have been since I first tasted her, but this would be different. This would be a claim, visible and lasting. A reminder every time she looks in the mirror that I was there, that I left my mark on her in the most literal fucking way possible.
An hour later, Nico is pulling up and getting out of his SUV, big ass case in hand from the trunk. He looks like he just rolled out of bed despite it being mid-afternoon.
"This better be good, Blackwood," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I had to reschedule a full back piece."
"Trust me, it's worth it." I lead him to the living room, gesturing for him to sit.
He drops his case on the coffee table and sprawls on the couch like he owns the place. His eyes catch on Reese's bucket list, and his eyebrows shoot up.
"What's this? 'Get a tattoo'?" He looks up at me with that knowing grin. "Ah, I get it now. You want me to ink your little dancer?"
My jaw tightens. "Reese wants a tattoo."
"And you called me." He nods, pulling out his iPad. "Smart move. I'm the best around. What's she thinking? Something small for her first time? Ankle? Hip? Maybe that sweet spot on the—"
"You're not touching her," I cut him off, my voice dropping to a growl.
Nico freezes, then his face cracks into a wide grin.
"Oh, this is fucking rich." He laughs, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You're really not gonna let me touch your girl, are you?
After I've done every single one of your cousin's tattoos, half your fucking arm, and that entire galaxy on your chest? "
"She's not—" I start, but the lie dies in my throat. "Just fucking listen to me."
"I'm all ears, baby boy." He's still grinning like this is the most entertaining shit he's ever seen.
"I want you to teach me how to do it."
His laughter cuts off abruptly. "You want me to what now?"
"Teach me. Give me a crash fucking course in tattooing." I pace in front of him, hands clenching and unclenching. "I'll pay whatever you want."
Nico stares at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "Let me get this straight. You want me, a professional with fifteen years of experience, to teach you—a fucking hockey player with zero artistic training—how to permanently mark someone's skin? In what, an afternoon?"
"Yes."
"You're out of your fucking mind," he says, but he's already opening his case. "But I've always appreciated the level of crazy you Blackwoods bring to the table."
For the next two hours while Reese is in class, he gives me the crash fucking course. Even letting me practice on a small fucking patch of untouched skin on the back of the calf.
"Look at that," Nico says, examining my work. "Not totally fucked up. You might have a knack for this."
I'm about to respond when I hear the front door open, followed by the sound of Reese dropping her dance bag in the entryway. My pulse quickens as her footsteps approach the living room.
Reese freezes in the doorway, her eyes going wide as she takes in the scene: Nico's tattoo equipment spread across the coffee table, my hand holding the machine, and what looks like a mini tattoo studio set up in our living room.
"Uh, hi?" she says, her gaze darting between me and Nico.
"This is Nico," I say, setting down the machine.
Nico stands, extending his hand to Reese with a smile that's a little too appreciative for my taste. "So you're the famous Reese. I've heard a lot about you."
"Oh hi, my bad for interrupting." She shakes his hand, a small smile playing on her lips. "I've heard of you before. Your work is amazing."
"Thanks, sweetheart." Nico's eyes flick to me, clearly enjoying how tense I'm getting. "Your boy here has been practicing. Not half bad for a beginner."
Reese's eyes widen as understanding dawns on her face. "Wait," she says, excitement building in her voice as she looks at me. "Does this mean tattoos?! Like, right now?"
"If you want," I say, trying to sound casual despite the way my heart is fucking pounding. The thought of marking her skin, of leaving something permanent on her body that she'll carry forever—it's making me feel possessive in a way I can barely control.
"Holy shit!" She rushes over, looking at all the equipment with wide eyes. "I've been wanting one for years but never had the guts to actually do it."
Nico chuckles, rolling down his pant leg. "Well, you're in luck, sweetheart. You've got two options today: let me do it—" he winks at her, "—or let this crazy motherfucker who's had exactly two hours of training try his hand."
Reese's eyes snap to mine, filled with confusion and something else—something that makes my blood run hot. "You're learning to tattoo? For me?"
"I'm not letting some random asshole touch you for hours," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended.
Nico scoffs at the random but he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face that makes me want to fucking punch him.
"Whadya want?" I ask, my eyes locked on hers, heart fucking hammering in my chest at the idea of permanently marking her skin.
She looks at me with those big hazel eyes, teeth catching her bottom lip in a way that makes my cock twitch. "You know me so well. Surprise me."
I nod, gesturing toward the chair we've set up. "Sit down."
She practically bounces over to the chair, excitement radiating off her in waves as she settles in. Nico just leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching us with that knowing smirk on his face. He's not saying shit, but I can tell he's enjoying the hell out of this little scene.
I grab my phone, fingers flying across the screen as I text Nico what I want. Something that represents her—represents us—without being too fucking obvious.
Five minutes later, Nico hands me a stencil, eyebrows raised like he's impressed with my choice. I take it from him, heart in my throat as I prep her skin, cleaning the inside of her wrist with alcohol.
"This might be cold," I warn her, pressing the stencil against her skin. When I pull it away, the outline is there—delicate but meaningful.
"Is the wrist good?" I ask, voice rougher than I intended. "Or do you want it somewhere else?"
"No, wrist is perfect," she says immediately, keeping her eyes on my face instead of looking down. "I trust you. I want it to be a true surprise."
Fuck, those words hit me like a physical blow. She trusts me. Even with something permanent, something she'll carry forever, she trusts me to make that choice.
"It'll hurt," I warn her, setting up the machine. "But I'll be as gentle as I can."
"I can take it," she says, a stubborn tilt to her chin making my chest tight.
I take her wrist in my hand; her pulse fluttering against my thumb as I position the needle. The buzz of the machine fills the room, and I see her tense slightly at the sound.
"Look at me," I tell her, waiting until those hazel eyes meet mine. "Just keep your eyes on me. If it gets too much, tell me and we'll take a break."
She nods, her gaze never leaving mine as I lower the needle to her skin. The first contact makes her flinch, but she doesn't pull away. Her eyes widen slightly, but then she relaxes, her body adjusting to the sensation.
"Good girl," I murmur, so low only she can hear it. Her pupils dilate at the praise.
I work slowly, carefully, watching her face for any sign of discomfort as I bring the purple octopus to life on her skin.
The little fucker wraps its tentacles around a cluster of stars, just like she's wrapped herself around my fucking heart.
Each line I draw feels like I'm claiming her in some primal way that goes beyond sex, beyond words.
"You doing okay?" I ask, wiping away excess ink and a tiny bead of blood.
"Mmm," she hums, her eyes still locked on mine. "It stings, but I kind of like it."
That sends a jolt straight to my cock. Of course she likes the pain. She's perfect in every fucking way.
Nico hovers nearby, occasionally grunting in approval or adjusting my hand position slightly. "Not bad, baby boy," he murmurs. "You got steady hands now I see."
Rolling my eyes, I ignore Nico’s dumbass. I finally finish the last star and sit back to admire my work.
The purple octopus looks almost alive, its tentacles curling protectively around a scattered constellation of tiny stars. It's cute but not childish, delicate but not fragile—just like her.
"Done," I say, my voice rougher than I expected. I clean the area gently, watching her face for reaction. "Go ahead and look."
She finally breaks eye contact to glance down at her wrist. Her breath catches, and for one heart-stopping second I wonder if she hates it.
"Ramsey," she whispers, turning her wrist to examine it from every angle. "It's fucking perfect."
I did that. I put that mark on her. My art, my creation, will be on her body until the day she dies.