Chapter Seventeen
I’m your host, Ewan McManus. Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle. Tonight, fifty of you walked in believing you belonged here. Confident. Talented. Certain you had what it takes.
Unfortunately… half of you were wrong.
Tattoos don’t care how badly you want it. Skin doesn’t care about excuses. And this competition definitely doesn’t care about potential. What matters is what you put down. Clean lines, solid choices, and the ability to perform under pressure.
Twenty-five of you proved that you can handle the stakes. You’re still in this.
The rest of you? You’re going home. Take a good look at the work you did on your first day because that’s the mark you leave on this competition. Some of you will be proud of it. Some of you will wish you’d had one more hour.
That’s Tattoo Spectacle. And tonight, the spectacle moves on without you.
Hale
The next day, we arrive downstairs twenty minutes early for the first eliminations, like punctuality might earn us mercy.
The convention area smells like burnt coffee and regret.
The acrid scent of stale alcohol mixes with anxious sweat, clinging to the air no matter how well the industrial air conditioning works.
We make a beeline for the coffee bar setup close to the entrance, shamelessly filling plates with carbs and cups with caffeine, with the vague hope that it’ll soak up whatever’s still sloshing around in our stomachs.
The coffee is thin and bitter. It was probably leftover from yesterday and reheated out of spite at an early hour. The donuts are stale and leave a film of grease on my fingers when I add them to my plate. I grab three.
We follow Eric as he heads straight for a table in the back corner. I’ve come to think of it as our table. No one is looking at us as we shuffle through the table-filled convention area. Everyone seems either hungover or lost in thought.
I’m currently both.
I’m not usually much of a drinker. Not like this, anyway. Since I’ve been in Vegas, though, it’s basically all I’ve done, and my body is filing formal complaints. It’s not that I never drink, I just usually don’t drink until I’m drunk enough to marry a virtual stranger.
I know, I know. Aksel isn’t technically a stranger.
But he was a guy I thought I hated up until a week ago, and somehow that feels worse. More dangerous. Like willingly stepping into heavy traffic instead of being pushed.
Maybe I’m overthinking everything.
Aksel has me tied up in knots so tight my stomach actually hurts.
Every time I think about our future or what comes next, a dull, anxious ache twists my gut.
Amazing orgasm aside, we don’t really know much about each other.
Not really. We’ve talked a lot, but it's all been surface-level truths and carefully edited answers like in our interviews, both of us scared to cross any uncomfortable lines.
We don’t lie, but I feel like we aren’t telling the full truth either.
I drop heavily into my chair, the plastic creaking under my weight as I slouch and drink my shitty coffee.
It’s lukewarm now, but I keep drinking it like penance paid for my night out.
My brain won’t shut up. My thoughts are stacking on top of each other, each one louder and more frantic than the last.
Aksel nudges me gently with his shoulder.
The contact is small, but it sends a jolt straight through me. Heat flares under my skin. He leans closer, and I can smell his cinnamon scent even stronger than before. It’s familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
His eyes search my face, asking if I’m okay without saying a word. My head spins with his ability to read me so easily. One look tells him how I’m feeling. One touch, and I’m all better. I hate how much I like it.
I nod quickly and turn back to my bitter water beverage, like it might have all the answers I need.
We sit in relative silence as we wait for the eliminations to start filming.
The room hums with nervous energy. People are shifting in their seats and having whispered conversations.
I doubt I’m going home this week, but you never know.
The judges might decide they don’t like my style and fry my ass on the spot.
I hope that doesn’t happen. I need this.
More than I’ve ever needed anything.
The scary show host calls for everyone’s attention, his microphone screeching with feedback before settling. The sound drills directly into my skull.
Eric moans dramatically and clutches his head like he's been shot.
“Good morning, everyone. I trust you had a good day yesterday,” he says, voice sharp and commanding. He sounds like a drill sergeant who feeds on fear. “We are here today to announce the first round of cuts. As you all know, half of you will be eliminated today.
My pulse is racing.
“Please do not let this discourage you from pursuing a future in this industry,” he continues. “Being invited to participate in Tattoo Spectacle means that you are in the top tier of artists within this community.”
“Here we go,” Aksel mutters, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch white.
Why don’t I feel scared?
I should be terrified. I could go home today, my future evaporating in front of me, but all I can think about is Aksel. About the way his hands feel on me. About how easy it is to laugh with him. About how much it would hurt if this ended and I never saw him again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My breath hitches, shallow and fast, and bile crawls up my throat. The room feels too bright, too loud, too full.
Eric must notice because he narrows his eyes, tilting his head slightly to study me. I meet his gaze, panic flashing openly across my face.
Does he know I’m not thinking about the competition right now? Does he know how close I am to losing it?
“I’ll be calling out names in alphabetical order. When you hear your name, please stand.”
The host starts listing names, each one hitting my chest like a dropped weight.
“Hale Aka.”
I stand on shaky legs.
More names. More standing bodies. The panic keeps building, coiling tighter and tighter until it feels like my ribs might crack from the pressure.
Eric’s name is called. He stands, relief flickering across his face.
Then, finally, “Aksel Winther.”
Aksel exhales sharply as he rises, and I barely register the lack of relief I should be feeling.
“If your name was called, you are safe from elimination,” the host concludes. “To everyone still seated, please pack your things and head home.”
Eric sinks back into his chair with a long breath. I don’t.
My brain feels… wrong. Hollow and overloaded at the same time.
I’m fucking broken. That’s the only explanation.
“Hey,” Aksel says softly, his voice low and careful, like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “You okay, Fylgja?”
I nod.
Shake my head. Then nod again.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice pitching higher than normal.
He rubs his hands up and down my arms, trying to soothe me. His touch is warm and solid. I hate how much it calms my omega. I hate how much I need it.
I can’t handle him touching me right now.
I pull his hands away gently, patting them before setting them at his sides, like I’m putting something fragile back where it belongs.
“I’m gonna go to the little boy’s room,” I squeak, already fleeing.
Gods, I’m dumb.
I bang open the bathroom door, checking quickly to make sure it’s empty before stumbling toward the sink. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Too bright. Too sharp. My head throbs. I twist the faucet on full blast and bend forward, shoving my head under the streaming water.
The water is ice cold. It’s a shock to my system, soaking my hair instantly before sliding to my face and neck as it runs down.
It flows over my nose and lips. I gasp, sputtering, but I don’t pull away.
The cold burns in a way that feels grounding, dragging me back into my body instead of floating off into whatever panic-fueled nightmare my brain is building.
For a few blessed seconds, all I can focus on is the sensation of roaring water in my ears and the sting against my skin. My lungs finally slow enough to pull in a real breath.
When I shut off the tap, the sudden silence is deafening. Water drips from my chin onto the porcelain, my hands braced on either side of the sink as I try to steady myself. My reflection stares back at me with wide eyes. Hair is plastered to my cheeks as if I just crawled out of a pool.
“Here.”
I flinch, glancing sideways. Eric holds out a small handful of brown paper towels, his expression soft. I take them with a quiet murmur of thanks and start blotting my face, the rough paper scraping lightly over my skin.
“Want to tell me what this is all about?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at my wet head. “Or should I assume drowned rat is the new Sin City Chic?”
“Not really,” I mutter, voice low and hoarse.
He hums thoughtfully. “Well, babes, it’s either your hubby or me.
You made him worry when you ran off like the big-titted blond in a horror movie.
Consequences must be faced.” He leans back against the counter with his arms linked across his large barrel chest. “So, what’s it gonna be?
You talking to me, or should I go grab him instead of sending him back to his hotel room? ”
The thought of Aksel being confused and concerned about me has my chest tightening again.
“That look does nothing for you, by the way,” he adds breezily as he inspects his nails like my impending emotional collapse isn’t even mildly entertaining. They’re glossy and perfectly shaped. When did he even have the time to get them done?
“I’m not going back to my room yet,” I say, my voice trembling. Now that the panic is ebbing, the crash of adrenaline has left me spent. “I can’t handle being around him right now.”