39 #2
‘You’re late, drittsekk!’ A deep voice carries from indoors.
Elias herds me inside with a hand at my back before another complaint escapes me.
The door shuts behind us, and my stomach drops with the sound. A coldness envelops me too quickly – as it should anyone who has been forced into a place built for permanent decisions they haven’t yet made.
The parlour is small and warm. The scent of disinfectant and coffee is strong enough to dissolve the regret of anyone stepping inside.
A tall, slender man rounds the counter with a mock-glower and a faint smile waging war over his face. Silver glints from a ring through his lower lip and black ink crawls up the side of his neck, spilling across both forearms beneath his rolled sleeves.
He looks as if he bites for free and charges for aftercare, but his eyes are the same shade of warmth as everyone else’s in this town.
I shift my unease to the other leg, folding in on myself as though it might shield me in any way.
When he reaches us, the man spreads his arms. Elias hesitates for barely a beat before stepping into a bear hug that drives a dull thud through both their chests. The tattooed man holds on for one heartbeat longer than a casual greeting requires.
My disdain thins.
Because Elias’ shoulders stay loose, and he holds him just as tightly in return. In fact, he lowers his chin and allows the man that extra second, as though his soul remembers that body is safe.
When they separate, Elias studies his face. ‘You good?’
The man’s dark gaze slides briefly to me. ‘Ja,’ he says roughly in Norwegian. ‘Det g?r bra.’ I’ve heard the phrase often enough to understand that he is claiming to be fine.
He clasps his hands behind his back and inclines his head once.
‘Welcome to my humble kingdom of darkness.’ His grin would be threatening if it didn’t contain such obvious pleasure at seeing Elias.
‘I’m Sindre. Thirty-five, underpaid artist, Jakob’s third cousin once removed and, obviously, the better-looking branch of the family tree. ’ He reaches a hand to shake mine.
As I attempt to introduce myself, Elias makes a low sound beside me. ‘The branch fell off and hit every rock on the way down.’
Sindre’s grin widens. ‘Jealousy ages a man.’
‘So does talking to you.’
I glance between them, expecting the air to tighten, but it doesn’t. If anything, the bickering settles around us like warmth from a hearth.
Ridiculous enough that my shoulders begin to lower all on their own.
‘My woman needs to cover a tattoo,’ Elias says, promptly stopping both Sindre’s hand and mine before they meet.
My woman rolls through me along with the vibration of Elias’ deep voice and leaves heat in all the places it has no business touching in public.
‘I’m Leah… Hi.’ I hurry to shake Sindre’s hand and banish the awkwardness.
‘Nice to meet you.’ His brows climb as he gives his cousin a look so blatant even the mounted skull on the wall seems to roll its non-existent eyes.
‘This isn’t the Viking Age, Jakob. Leave your axe at the door and let the woman speak before you start carving runes into her.’
Elias’ jaw ticks. Sindre ignores him beautifully and turns to me, smile softening by a fraction. ‘So, Leah,’ he says, directing the question firmly at me, ‘what are we covering?’
‘A small tattoo on my hip. About four centimetres long. A name with a small rose above it.’ My hand reaches for the ring finger of my other hand, and Elias stiffens when I touch the place where Ron’s band used to sit.
I quickly clasp my hands behind my back in recovery.
‘I’ll need to see the existing linework before I promise anything. Cover-ups usually need to run larger than the original, and I’ll need enough dark work in the design to bury the old lines,’ Sindre mutters as he rubs his chin a few times. ‘Any ideas what you want to get?’
My mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out.
I look around the parlour as if the answer might be hiding in the skull print on the left, the blackwork designs on the right, and a framed moth with too many wings ahead.
‘Something natural. Maybe. Branches? Antlers? No, that feels a little on the nose. Maybe flowers, but not the pretty-girly kind. I guess.’
The longer I speak, the tighter Elias’ shoulders draw beside me. Sindre watches him for another second like a man measuring how much fuse is left.
Then he steps closer to his giant cousin and gives his shoulder a brief squeeze.
‘Why don’t you sit down and check out some of the stuff in the folders over there?
’ Sindre points to a low bookshelf beside a worn leather sofa.
‘I’ll be in the café across the road for ten minutes.
The front door will be locked; the treatment room stays untouched – use the design room – and if I return to find either of you near my sterile equipment, I am tattooing a warning label across both your foreheads. ’
Sindre is halfway to the door when Elias meets my eyes. The easy irritation he’d worn for his cousin has gone, replaced by something sterner that settles over his face when the bell gives its first impatient jangle.
My pulse answers before the door even closes.
Elias takes my hand in his.
‘Behind the counter,’ he says. ‘Now.’
Without waiting for my input, he leads me past the till and through a black curtain into a narrow room with a reclining chair, leather sofa and shelves crowded with portfolios.
I brace for the argument.
‘Elias—’
His mouth hits mine.