Canvas’ Muse (Iron Phoenix MC #3)

Chapter 1 - Eden

The dragon design on my phone screen is absolutely perfect.

Dark scales that look like they're catching light, wings spread wide enough to wrap around a thigh, claws that seem ready to dig into skin.

I've been staring at this image for six months, ever since I found Canvas Ink's Instagram at two in the morning during a night shift break, and I still get the same flutter in my chest every time I look at it.

Today, it's finally happening. Today, this dragon becomes mine.

I pull into the parking lot outside Canvas Ink at exactly 1:45 PM, fifteen minutes early because I'm constitutionally incapable of being late for anything.

The studio sits on a quiet street in downtown Millhaven, wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage bookstore.

The building is older brick, but the storefront is modern: clean lines, dark wood, a simple sign with the studio name in elegant script.

Through the window, I can see framed prints covering every wall. Dragons, florals, geometric designs, dark creatures that look like they stepped out of a fantasy novel. Exactly my kind of art.

I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one more time.

Long dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders, bright blue eyes that look extra blue today because I'm nervous, eyebrow piercing catching the afternoon light.

I look good. Professional. Like a woman who definitely isn't about to spend three hours in her underwear with a man she's only seen in Instagram photos.

I grab my bag and head inside.

The studio smells like ink and sandalwood.

It's even cleaner in person than it looked online.

Polished concrete floors, spotless black furniture in the waiting area, more framed designs covering the walls.

Everything is organized, intentional, and beautiful.

This is someone's pride, their life's work made visible.

"Be right there!" A voice calls from somewhere in the back.

I set my bag down on one of the chairs and move closer to examine the wall art.

A massive phoenix taking up an entire back piece, flames rendered in orange and gold that look like they're actually burning.

A sleeve of roses so detailed I can see individual thorns.

A geometric wolf that's half realistic, half abstract lines.

"You must be Eden."

I turn around and immediately forget how to form words.

Canvas is significantly more attractive in person than he was in his photos, which seems fundamentally unfair. He's tall, taller than I expected, maybe six-two or six-three, and lean in a way that suggests strength without bulk. Dark hair, dark eyes, an eyebrow piercing that matches mine exactly.

And tattoos. God, the tattoos. Every visible inch of skin is covered in beautiful, intricate work. His neck, his hands, his face, dark designs that flow together like a living art gallery.

He's wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt with the Canvas Ink logo, and he moves with the kind of confidence that comes from someone who stopped caring what people thought a very long time ago.

"That's me," I manage, finding my voice. "Hi."

"Davis." He extends a hand. "But everyone calls me Canvas."

His handshake is firm, warm, and I notice more details as we shake, like the calluses on his fingers, the way his sleeve shifts to reveal more ink underneath, the small scar near his jawline. "Your work is incredible. I've been obsessed with your dragon designs for months."

"Appreciate it." He grins. "You said thigh placement, right? Left thigh, outer side?"

"Right. I mean, yes. Left thigh, outer." I'm already blushing and we haven't even started. Professional, Eden. Be professional. "I brought reference photos of the exact positioning I was thinking."

"Perfect. Let me get the stencil ready and we'll map it out." He gestures toward the back. "Private room's through here. More comfortable for bigger pieces."

I follow him through a doorway into a smaller room that's just as clean as the front.

There's a large black leather chair in the center, the kind that reclines and adjusts to different angles, and a rolling cart with all his equipment already laid out.

No windows, just warm overhead lighting and more framed prints on the walls.

"You can get comfortable," Canvas says, pulling up the design on his tablet. "There's a blanket on the chair if you want it. We're gonna be here a while, so speak up if you need breaks, water, whatever."

"I'm a nurse," I tell him, settling into the chair. "I'm good with long sessions. I've pulled twelve-hour shifts where I forgot to eat lunch."

He glances up, eyebrows raised. "Millhaven General?"

"Emergency department. Four years now." I kick off my shoes and start unbuttoning my jeans.

This is fine. This is professional. I've been half-naked in front of plenty of people in medical contexts.

This is basically the same thing, except it's not at all the same thing and I'm very aware of that fact. "You ever end up there?"

"Few times. Bike accident last year, bar fight the year before that." He's focused on his tablet, which makes it easier to shimmy out of my jeans without feeling like I'm performing a striptease. "You probably stitched up half the MC at some point."

"Probably." I settle back into the chair in my t-shirt and underwear. Thank god I wore the pretty black ones with the lace trim and try to look casual about it. "I don't usually remember faces unless something memorable happened. Did you bleed memorably?"

Canvas laughs, a real laugh that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Not particularly. I try to keep my blood on the inside these days."

"Smart policy." I watch as he prints the stencil, the machine humming quietly in the corner. "So how long have you been doing this?"

"Professionally? About ten years. But I started tattooing when I was sixteen.

" He brings the stencil over, examining my thigh with the clinical focus of an artist planning a masterpiece.

"Started on myself, then friends, anyone who'd let me practice.

Probably gave some truly terrible tattoos in those early days. "

"Do you have any of your own terrible early work?"

"Left calf. A skull that looks more like a potato." He positions the stencil, checking the angle. "I keep meaning to cover it, but it's a good reminder of where I started. This look good to you?"

I lean forward to examine the placement. The dragon curves perfectly along my outer thigh, head near my hip, tail wrapping toward my knee. It's exactly what I pictured. "That's perfect."

"You sure? Once I start, we're committed."

"I'm sure." I meet his eyes. "I've wanted this exact dragon for months. I trust you."

"Alright then. Let's start this."

He applies the stencil with precision, then peels it away to reveal the purple outline against my skin. The dragon looks alive already, coiled and ready to take flight. I take a photo with my phone before he starts, wanting to remember this moment.

"You ready?" Canvas asks, adjusting his equipment.

"Ready."

The first line hurts less than I expected. I've been tattooed enough times to know my pain tolerance, but there's always that initial moment of uncertainty. Canvas works with steady confidence, his hand firm against my thigh, the machine buzzing in a rhythm that becomes almost meditative.

"So," he says after a few minutes, "emergency department nurse who reads fantasy and gets dragon tattoos. Tell me you're not one of those people who thinks the Stormlight Archive is overrated."

I laugh, surprised. "How did you… The books on my Instagram?"

"Checked your profile after you booked. Professional research." He smirks without looking up from his work. "Saw a lot of Sanderson, some Tolkien, what looked like the entire Wheel of Time series."

"Guilty on all counts." The pain is settling into something manageable, a burn that I can breathe through. "And no, Stormlight is not overrated. It's perfect. Anyone who says otherwise is wrong."

"Thank god." He sounds genuinely relieved. "Had a client last month who spent two hours telling me fantasy is for people who can't handle real literature. While I was tattooing a phoenix on his back. The irony was lost on him."

"Please tell me you added something petty to the design."

"One feather that's slightly asymmetrical. He'll never notice, but I know it's there." Canvas wipes away excess ink, examining his progress. "You're sitting really well, by the way. Some people are crying by now."

"Thigh isn't that bad. My ribs, though, that was hell." I adjust my position slightly. "Three sessions for botanical work up my left side. I think I astral projected during the third one."

"Ribs are brutal." He dips the machine for more ink. "I did my own ribs and immediately regretted every life choice that led to that moment."

We fall into an easy rhythm after that. He works, I breathe through the pain, and we talk about everything—fantasy novels, terrible clients, the best coffee in Millhaven, the worst injuries we've seen.

I tell him about the time someone came into the ER with a fork embedded in their hand (long story involving a toaster and poor judgment).

He tells me about tattooing someone who passed out, woke up, and immediately asked to continue.

"You're either brave or stupid," Canvas says, and I can't tell if he's talking about the client or me.

"Can't it be both?"

"Usually is."

An hour passes, then another. The pain intensifies as he works over more sensitive areas, but it's manageable. I focus on his voice, the steady buzz of the machine, the way his hands are somehow both gentle and certain.

"Question," I say during a water break. "The eyebrow piercing. How long have you had it?"

Canvas touches it absently, like he sometimes forgets it's there. "Since I was nineteen. Got it the same day I got on a bus and left home for good. Felt like marking the occasion."

There's a story there, something heavy in the way he says it, but I don't push. We all have our scars, some visible, some not.

"Mine's from college," I offer. "Nursing school rebellion. My mom almost had a heart attack."

"But you kept it."

"But I kept it." I smile at the memory. "She got over it eventually. Even said it looked good, which might be the highest compliment I've ever received from her."

Canvas grins and gets back to work. The dragon is taking shape now, scales catching the light, wings spreading across my thigh. It's more beautiful than I imagined, and I imagined it would be pretty damn beautiful.

"You do a lot of dragons?" I ask.

"Fair amount. They're popular right now, but I don't mind, they're fun to design. Everyone wants something slightly different." He adds shading to a wing, the detail so fine it must take incredible patience. "This one's good though. The positioning, the flow. It suits you."

"How can you tell?"

"Some tattoos just fit people. Don't know how to explain it better than that." He sits back, examining the full piece. "Like they were always supposed to be there."

Something warm blooms in my chest at that, something I absolutely should not be feeling right now. This is professional. He probably says that to everyone.

Except the way he's looking at the tattoo, at my thigh, at his work, doesn't feel like something he says to everyone.

"We're making good progress," Canvas says, checking his phone. "Probably another hour and we'll be done with today's session. You doing okay?"

"I'm good." And I am. The pain is there, but it's background noise now. I'm more focused on the art taking shape on my skin, and on the man creating it. "This might be my favorite tattoo yet."

"Yeah?" He sounds pleased. "Wait ‘til you see it finished."

We settle back into comfortable silence, Canvas working with complete focus while I watch the dragon grow more detailed with every pass. I could get used to this. To him.

Which is a dangerous thought, because Canvas is MC. Iron Phoenix cut, leather jacket, the whole package. I saw it hanging by the door when I walked in. And I've made it a point not to get involved with dangerous men, no matter how talented their hands are or how well they know their Sanderson.

But god, he makes it tempting.