Chapter 11 Isaiah
ISAIAH
Valentina has been unraveling for two days straight, and I’m the only one who seems to notice the way the threads are actually snapping.
Everyone else sees the surface: the quietness, the stillness, the way she stays in Xavier’s room every hour she can.
They think she’s grieving, coping, overwhelmed.
But I know her better than that. Her quiet isn’t calm—it’s a vacuum.
A hollow space where she’s disappearing piece by piece, slipping behind her own eyes as if her mind has retreated somewhere I can’t follow unless I pry the walls apart with my bare hands.
I can’t let her stay inside that house another second. The rooms feel too small, too suffocating, too saturated with memory—Xavier’s blood on Asher’s shirt, Valentina’s panic attack, every stare from the council men who think she’s fragile or foolish or manipulable. She can’t breathe there.
So I get her out.
“Just come with me,” I tell her quietly. “Fifteen minutes.”
She hesitates in the doorway, hoodie too big, sleeves covering her wrists, her fingers rubbing raw lines into the hem. She looks like she’s bracing for something she won’t name. Then she nods. Wordless.
That scares me the most—she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t snark. Doesn’t give me attitude or suspicion or that little eyebrow lift she always does when she’s pretending she’s not curious. She just follows.
The streets are gray, washed-out concrete and washed-out sky. She walks half a step behind me, not because she’s scared but because she’s exhausted. Her silence clings to my ribs. I want to peel it off her with my hands, make her talk, make her fight, make her breathe.
Ink & Sin sits wedged between a pawn shop with boards nailed at jagged angles and an always-empty laundromat that smells like bleach and nothing else.
The neon over the tattoo shop flickers—INK & SIN, except three letters are dead, so it reads IN & S.
Something about the brokenness fits her mood too well.
Valentina studies it for a long moment. Her lashes lower. Her voice is a whisper, barely there. “Is this… safe?”
“With Frankie?” I ask. “Always.”
I push the door open. The hum of tattoo machines fills the air immediately—steady, rhythmic, like mechanical heartbeats.
The surfaces gleam under bright lights: metal trays, glass cabinets stuffed with ink, gloves, syringes, caps.
The walls are a mosaic of flash sheets, some clean and minimalist, others violent and ornate—skulls wrapped in roses, saints with cracked halos, wolves devouring moonlight.
Val steps in cautiously. Her eyes keep shifting, taking everything in. I watch the way her shoulders sit too high, the way she breathes too shallow.
Frankie emerges from the back like a hurricane wearing combat boots. Purple hair shaved on one side, the rest wild around her face. Tattoos layered over tattoos until she looks like a walking, breathing mural. Piercings glint wherever she moves.
She wipes her hands on a towel and stops dead when she sees Valentina.
“Holy shit,” Frankie says slowly. “You didn’t tell me she was this gorgeous.”
Valentina’s eyes widen. She tries to step behind me, but I move without thinking, blocking Frankie’s view with my body. Frankie laughs loudly.
“Oh my god. He’s jealous. That’s actually adorable. Isaiah, your face looks like a rabid raccoon guarding a chicken nugget.”
“Shut up,” I say.
Valentina hovers close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm. Not deliberate, not playful—instinctual. Seeking closeness. Seeking protection.
Something coils low in me with a dark, possessive satisfaction.
Frankie winks at Valentina. “I’m harmless. Mostly. Name’s Frankie. He probably didn’t tell you I exist.”
“I—hi,” Val stammers.
She’s flustered, and the sight punches something warm into my chest. I haven’t seen her react to anything in days.
Frankie nods toward the back. “Come on. I’ll put you two in the private chair. You can hide there if the Vipers show up early.”
Valentina stops. “Vipers? They—come here?”
“Yep,” Frankie says. “They get their tats touched up like clockwork. Rumor is Killian’s putting some of his boys ‘on the books.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
My jaw tightens.
“Frankie,” I warn.
She lifts her hands. “I’m just saying. Your girl deserves the heads-up.”
Valentina stiffens at the phrase your girl, but she doesn’t correct it.
And that… that does something to me. Something dangerous.
We slip into the back room behind a curtain of clinking metal beads.
The private space is dimmer, warmer, with a single tattoo chair in the center under an adjustable lamp.
Needles, ink caps, gloves, alcohol wipes arranged neatly on metal trays.
The walls are lined with sketches—inked saints and sinners, roses wrapping around ribs, intricate linework curling into shapes that look like spellwork.
Valentina lowers herself into the chair. Her hands twist in the hem of her hoodie again.
I roll the stool toward her and rest my arm on the edge of the chair. “How’s your breathing?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“You’ve been holding it the whole walk here.”
She presses her palm to her chest, as if checking. “I… didn’t realize.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I know.”
She looks so exhausted my chest aches. Her legs curl underneath her slightly, hoodie swallowing her frame. She isn’t made for stillness—Valentina thrives in motion, in fire, in chaos she chooses—not this frozen state she’s stuck in.
“Tell me something,” I say quietly.
She lifts her eyes. “What?”
“Did you ever want a tattoo?”
The question startles her enough to break the fog. She blinks rapidly. “Actually… yes. Always.”
I lean closer. “Let me choose your first one.”
Her brows knit. “Absolutely not. You’d pick something insane.”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “Exactly.”
She stares at me for a long, suspended moment. I watch her swallow. Watch the way her anxiety shifts into something warmer, something more alive. This is what I wanted—her spark, even if brief.
“…Fine,” she says finally. “Choose it.”
The air thickens. My pulse kicks.
“You trust me that much?” I murmur.
“I trust you enough,” she says. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“Oh, you will,” Frankie calls cheerfully from behind us.
I ignore her, leaning in until my lips almost brush the shell of Valentina’s ear. Not touching—but close enough that I feel her shiver. My hand rests lightly on the back of her chair, caging her in.
“Lower right back,” I whisper. “Something only I’ll see. At least for now.”
A breath punches out of her. She doesn’t pull away.
Good.
I turn my mouth toward Frankie. “Raider sigil. Wrapped in roses. Thorns sharp.”
Frankie’s smile is pure evil. “You’re a romantic psychopath.”
Valentina narrows her eyes. “I hate both of you.”
But the way her knees press together tells a different story.
She straightens. “Then I get to choose yours.”
“Yes,” I say instantly.
“Saint Valentine,” she says, and the name lands like a hand closing around my spine. “Right here.” She presses her palm flat to my sternum, fingers spread, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Over your heart.”
My breath stutters. The world contracts to her hand, her fingers, the soft pressure. I want to cover her hand with mine and hold it there until our bones fuse.
She drops her hand too quickly. Frankie claps. “Let’s go, lovebirds. Shirts off and bodies up. I got work to do.”
I peel off my shirt, tossing it aside, and drop onto the chair. Frankie sterilizes my skin and turns on the machine. The buzz fills the room, vibrating through the floor, through my ribs, through her.
Valentina stands so close I could rest my head on her stomach if I tilted forward. Her hand finds my thigh—hesitant at first, then steady. Claiming. Her thumb brushes tiny arcs against my skin whenever the needle digs a little deeper.
The pain is nothing compared to that touch.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Does it hurt?”
“Some.”
“Don’t lie.”
I look up at her, feeling the pull between us like a magnetic field snapping tight. “It hurts less with you touching me.”
Her breath catches audibly.
Frankie mutters something about lovesick disasters under her breath, but I barely hear it.
Then—
The front door slams open.
Heavy boots. Loud voices. The sudden shift in atmosphere as five, maybe six Vipers spill inside the shop. Their energy is sharp, chaotic, loud enough that Valentina jerks in surprise.
Frankie goes rigid.
“Of course they’re early,” she mutters.
The voices grow louder.
One man barks, “Killian’s gonna lose his shit—”
Another laughs crudely. “Man, he’s whipped. Ever since that girl—”
There’s a crash. Flesh hitting wall. A muffled cry. A hard thud of knuckles meeting bone.
Valentina’s eyes widen.
Mine narrow.
That last voice—the calm, cold one telling the others to shut up—that’s Axel.
Killian’s twin.
Golden boy body. Ice-blue eyes. Violence polished into something elegant. My equal in all the worst ways.
Frankie rushes into the front. “Knock it off! Axel!”
The buzzing in my chest goes sharp.
I shift, rising halfway out of the chair. Valentina immediately grips my arm—her fingers shaking.
I turn toward her without thinking, cupping her jaw gently, running my thumb along the line where tension holds tight. “I won’t let anything touch you,” I say, voice low and certain, like a promise carved into stone.
Her lips part in a soft, startled breath.
Another crash from the front. A chair skidding. Frankie yelling.
I step in front of Valentina, shielding her with my body. She presses closer, her hands sliding around my waist, fingers gripping the back of my ribs. I feel her breath against my shoulder, fast and unsteady.
Her fear doesn’t repulse me—it activates something ancient and territorial and carnivorous inside my chest.
A violent crack echoes down the hall.
Val flinches so hard she grips my hips to steady herself. I cover her hands with mine, coaxing her fingers open, grounding her.
Then the beads rattle violently.
Axel steps into the room.
He fills the doorway, tattoo gun dripping ink and blood somewhere along the metal barrel. His knuckles are raw, split. One of the Vipers behind him holds his face, blood dripping between his fingers, eye swelling shut.
Frankie is screaming at him, but Axel doesn’t hear her.
Because he sees us.
He sees Valentina holding onto me. He sees my hands around her waist. He sees her hoodie pushed up enough to reveal a hint of skin.
His expression changes—slow, predatory, curious.
He tilts his head, studying me the way someone studies an opponent across a fighting ring. Then he shifts and studies her.
Recognition. Understanding. Calculation.
His lips curl into a razor-thin smile.
“Didn’t know you were hiding her today, Zay,” he says softly.
My pulse drops into something cold and murderous.
“Back up,” Frankie snarls at him. “You are officially banned for the day.”
Axel doesn’t back up.
Not until he’s had enough time to watch Valentina flinch behind me. Enough time to watch my body shift to block his view entirely. Enough time to catalog every reaction we give him.
Only then—only when he’s satisfied—does he laugh once, low and dangerous, and jerk his chin at the other Vipers.
“Let’s go.”
They scuttle out like rats.
The door slams behind them.
Valentina is shaking. Not a lot. Not theatrically. Just enough that the tremor runs through her hands and into my skin.
I turn to her, gently moving her hair out of her face, brushing the strands back with slow, deliberate care. “Hey. Look at me.”
She lifts her eyes, wide and frightened. Vulnerable in a way she never lets herself be.
“You’re okay,” I say, voice thick and quiet. “I’ve got you.”
“I—I didn’t expect—”
“I know.” I rest my forehead against hers. Close enough that we share breath, heat, the faint tremble of her lips brushing mine accidentally before she pulls in a ragged inhale.
If she leaned in half an inch, we’d be kissing.
I don’t move.
She closes her eyes—too overwhelmed, too raw—and I feel her breathe against me, soft and uneven. I could stay like this forever, holding her together with my hands and my body and sheer will.
But Frankie clears her throat, shaky. “You two… need to finish up and get out. Like now.”
Valentina nods, shaky but determined. She pushes away—but not far—and moves toward the chair. She hesitates, then looks at me.
“Stay close,” she whispers.
“Always.”
She climbs onto the chair on her knees, back arched slightly as she pulls her hoodie up enough to expose her lower right side. Her skin looks impossibly smooth under the lamp’s glare. The dip above her hip is a curve I shouldn’t be staring at but can’t stop.
I stand behind her, hands settling on her hips firmly this time, not pretending restraint. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t tell me to stop. My thumbs brush slow, steady circles into her skin as Frankie outlines the sigil—the Raider crest surrounded by roses with petals edged in sharp points.
Valentina winces at the first bite of the needle, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair. I lean down, my lips close to her ear.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
She leans back into me—not dramatically, just enough that her spine touches my stomach. Enough that I feel her warmth, her trembling, her trust. I hold her steady, hands guiding her hips through every flinch, every tensing muscle.
She whispers, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“I don’t need to. You picked it.”
My breath catches.
Frankie finishes the shading, swipes away excess ink, and steps back. “Done.”
Valentina exhales shakily, pushing herself upright. She wobbles. I catch her waist, pulling her into me instinctively, her back against my chest.
She doesn’t pull away.
She rests there—just rests—her head tipped back slightly, her breath brushing my throat.
Frankie pretends not to notice. “All right, saint boy, your turn. Chest up.”
I lie back. Valentina doesn’t leave my side. Instead, she sits on the small edge of the chair beside me and places her hand low on my stomach, fingertips touching the waistband of my jeans.
The touch sears.
Frankie finishes the last strokes quickly. “Done. Now get out before Axel returns for round two.”
I stand. Valentina stands. She sways again and I grab her hip—firm, steady, guiding. She leans into my touch without hesitation.
We step out into the dim afternoon. The street looks empty.
Too empty.
Valentina presses close to my side, tension radiating off her.
And then I see him.
Across the street. Leaning against the wall.
Axel.
Watching.
Smirking.
Waiting.
Valentina’s breath catches. Her spine goes rigid with fear.
I pull her behind me, my hand wrapping around her wrist, possessive and protective and ready to break bones.
Because now I know exactly what this means.
Exactly how bad this is.
Exactly how deep we’re in.
“Fuck.”