Bonus Scene
POV: IVY
The adrenaline of the gala is fading, replaced by a hum of exhaustion and lingering arousal.
We are back in the penthouse. The staff has been dismissed. Elena is asleep in her room, guarded by the best security system money can buy.
It is just us.
Silas sits on the edge of the massive bed, loosening his tie. He looks magnificent. The years have added silver to his temples and etched deeper lines around his eyes, but they haven't softened him. He looks like a king who has just taken off his armor.
I walk into the room, carrying a small, black case.
Silas watches me. His eyes track my movement, heavy and possessive. He sees the case. He frowns.
"What is that?"
"A gift," I say. "For our anniversary."
I set the case on the nightstand and open it. inside lies a tattoo gun, sterile needles, and a pot of black ink.
Silas goes still. "Ivy?"
"You marked me," I say softly, lifting the hem of my silk dress to show the platinum anklet. "You put your tracker on me. You put your ring on my finger. You put your baby in my womb. Everywhere I look, I see you on me."
I walk over to him. I step between his spread knees. I run my hands over the lapels of his suit jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.
"But you?" I whisper. "Your skin is blank, Silas. Unmarked. Pristine."
He stares up at me, his blue eyes darkening with understanding. "And you want to change that?"
"I want to ruin you," I correct him. "Just a little bit."
I unbutton his shirt. I strip it off, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the scars from old wars, the muscles that tense under my touch.
"Where?" he asks. His voice is a rough growl. He isn't pulling away. He is leaning into it.
"Here," I say, placing my hand over his heart. "Right over the ribcage. Where it hurts the most."
"Do it."
I plug in the machine. The hum fills the quiet room.
Silas lies back on the pillows. He doesn't look at the needle. He looks at me. He watches my face with a hunger that sets my blood on fire.
I dip the needle in the ink.
I lean over him. My hair falls like a curtain around us, shutting out the world.
"This is going to hurt," I promise.
"Good," he breathes.
I press the needle to his skin.
He doesn't flinch. His muscles jump involuntarily, but his face remains impassive. He just watches me. He watches me carve my name into him.
I work slowly. I am an artist. I know the weight of the hand, the depth of the puncture. I watch the blood well up, mixing with the black ink. It’s beautiful. It’s visceral.
It takes an hour.
When I finish, I wipe the blood away with a sterile cloth.
There, in elegant, jagged script right over his heart, is a single word:
Mine.
It mirrors what he whispered to my stomach when I was pregnant. It mirrors what he says to me every night.
Silas sits up. He walks to the mirror. He looks at the fresh, angry wound on his chest.
He runs his fingers over it.
"Mine," he reads.
He turns to me. The look in his eyes is terrifying. It is the look of a man who has just been given a religion.
"You branded me," he says.
"Yes."
"You claimed the monster."
"I corrupted the saint," I counter.
He crosses the room in two strides. He picks me up and throws me onto the bed.
"Show me," he snarls, crawling over me. "Show me who you own."
He rips my dress open. He doesn't bother with finesse. The tattoo has unlocked something primal in him. He needs to feel the connection, the permanence.
He kisses me, tasting of bourbon and violence. His hands are everywhere, worshipping the body he kept, the body he protected, the body he now shares his mark with.
"I love you," he groans against my throat, biting down on the pulse point. "I love you more than breath. More than blood."
"I know," I whisper, wrapping my legs around him, pulling him down into the dark. "I have it in writing."
He enters me, filling the empty spaces, sealing the bond.
The tracker on my ankle blinks in the darkness. The ink on his chest bleeds into the sheets.
We are scarred. We are broken. We are perfect.
And we will never be free.