58. Critical Nineteen #2
Permission repeats itself in dozens of tiny ways without either of us saying the word.
I wipe away the excess ink and his gaze returns to my face.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.”
“Need a break?”
“No.”
His mouth shifts almost into a smile. “Do you?”
My grip tightens involuntarily around his wrist. “Asshole.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“I’m fine.”
He hums.
I know exactly what he’s doing, and the bastard knows that I know.
I lower my head and start the next line, the buzz of the machine filling the quiet between us while his pulse stays steady beneath my fingertips.
There was a time when touch like this between us would have meant nothing, or maybe would have existed so far outside what either of us considered possible that I wouldn’t have known how to name it.
Now I know where I’m allowed to put my hands. I know when he wants warning and when he doesn’t need it because he’s watching every move. I know the difference between Ronan tolerating touch and Ronan choosing it.
This is chosen.
Maybe that’s why it feels more intimate than it technically should.
Or maybe tattoos have always been intimate to me, and I stopped admitting it somewhere along the way.
The memory of Cami on this same table comes without me trying to summon it—her hip beneath my hand, the d20 slowly appearing on her skin while she watched me with the kind of trust that terrified me then.
Nineteen.
Critical hope.
Then her climbing into my lap the second I told her she was done.
I don’t consciously compare Ronan to her.
The feeling finds the same place anyway.
Trust in my hands. Stillness that isn’t passive. Someone letting me leave something permanent on their body because they want me to be the one who puts it there.
Ronan’s breathing changes slightly when the needle moves over a more sensitive patch.
“You good?”
“Yes, Micah.”
His voice is low, his attention still fixed on me.
I swallow. “Okay.”
I don’t rush the last few lines.
When I finally wipe the tattoo clean, he looks down and goes silent for a long moment, studying the small black die now settled into the skin of his forearm.
His thumb moves near it, careful not to touch.
“Nineteen.”
“Yeah.”
His expression shifts in a way I can’t quite name.
“Good.”
That’s all he says.
It’s enough.
I bandage him and release his wrist, and my palm feels strangely empty when I do.
Griffin takes his place next.
He strips his shirt off without ceremony and lies back on the table.
Dex whistles.
Griffin doesn’t even look at him. “Do it, and I leave.”
“I was complimenting the groom.”
“You were being annoying.”
“Both can be true.”
Griffin chose the left side of his chest, directly over his heart. I knew he would before he even told me. He didn’t seriously consider another placement.
I press the stencil into position, then hand him the mirror.
He attempts to angle it.
Then he tries to lift his head.
“Can you see it?”
“No.”
“Then stop doing that before your neck hurts.”
He gives me a look.
I stare back.
Eventually he drops his head against the table. “Fine.”
Dex leans over from one side while Ronan moves to the other. Those are the only two who can actually see what I’m doing once I sit down.
Griffin can’t.
He tries once more when the machine starts, realizes all he can see is the top of my head and a warped angle of his own chest, then gives up completely.
His eyes settle on the ceiling.
He breathes in, then out, and by the time I finish the outline, he’s almost somewhere else. Not asleep, exactly. Just quiet in that Griffin way where he pulls inward without actually leaving.
His chest rises beneath my hand in slow, even breaths.
Under the skin, his heart keeps beating against the heel of my palm every time I stretch the skin.
That gets me more than I expect.
I slow for half a second.
Griffin notices immediately, and his eyes drop from the ceiling. “You okay?”
I almost laugh. “I’m tattooing you.”
“Still.”
“Yeah.” I wipe away the excess ink. “You?”
He looks back toward the ceiling. “I’m good.”
Dex has gone quiet.
Ronan too.
Neither of them makes a joke as the design becomes clear.
The d20 sits over Griffin’s heart like it was always supposed to be there.
When I’m done, Griffin stands and finally gets a real look in the mirror.
His fingers hover beneath the bandage.
His throat moves.
Dex clears his.
Ronan looks away.
And I suddenly need everyone to stop having emotions in my tattoo station because this is becoming a hostile fucking work environment.
“What?” Griffin asks quietly.
Dex sniffs. “Nothing.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
Ronan says, “He is.”
“Traitor.”
I cover Griffin’s tattoo before any of us completely lose the ability to pretend we’re normal adults.
Then it’s my turn.
Jules looks delighted when I call them over.
“Oh, the cult leader gets branded too?”
“I’m not the cult leader.”
All three men answer at once.
“Ronan.”
Jules looks at him.
Ronan sighs. “Apparently.”
We move to Jules’s station.
I’ve been on this side of the machine plenty of times. There’s nothing novel about having someone tattoo me. I’ve had artists work on me for hours, fallen asleep under needles, designed half the shit on my body myself, and traded work for most of the rest.
But when Jules places Cami’s d20 stencil on my forearm, I can’t stop staring at it.
My arm.
Her mark.
Our mark now.
“You happy there?” Jules asks.
“Yeah.”
They start, and the first sting is familiar enough that I barely register it.
What I do register is Dex’s hand landing on my shoulder.
Griffin standing behind him.
Ronan beside the station, his newly bandaged forearm resting against his chest.
They aren’t really watching the tattoo.
They’re watching me.
And fuck if that doesn’t make the whole thing harder.
Or easier.
Maybe both.
Jules works quickly. When they finish, I sit up and stare at the fresh ink.
“I’ve got a lot of tattoos,” I say, and my voice sounds rougher than I expect.
Dex squeezes my shoulder once.
I keep looking at my arm.
“I think this might be the most meaningful one I’ve ever gotten.”
Nobody makes a joke.
Not even Dex.
Somehow, that’s the thing that almost fucking breaks me.
Two mornings later, Dex lies to Cami before nine a.m.
That isn’t unusual.
What’s unusual is that the rest of us are in on it.
“We bought you jewelry,” he tells her.
Cami narrows her eyes.
We’re at the venue in one of the rooms off the main hall, and Cami is nowhere near dressed yet because apparently Clay and her mother have formed an armed security detail around the wedding gown.
She’s wearing tiny black shorts and an oversized white button-down that probably belongs to Griffin. Her hair is half done, her makeup mostly finished, her feet bare against the carpet.
She looks beautiful.
She also looks suspicious as hell.
“You bought me jewelry?”
Dex nods solemnly. “Collectively.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re getting married.”
“I’m already married.”
“Again.”
She folds her arms. “Where is it?”
Dex looks at Griffin.
Griffin looks at me.
Ronan looks like he regrets agreeing to any of this.
Behind Cami, Clay leans against the closed door to the adjoining room.
The dress is in there, along with Cami’s mother, who has apparently decided no man gets within five feet of the garment until Cami is ready to put it on.
Clay points at all of us. “Just so we’re clear, you can see her. You cannot see the dress.”
Dex puts a hand to his heart. “I respect the sanctity of the garment bag.”
“You tried to look twenty minutes ago.”
“I was curious.”
Cami’s mom calls through the door, “Dexter, if you touch this dress, I will break your fingers.”
Dex’s eyes widen. “I love her.”
Cami laughs. “Okay. Jewelry.”
“Right.” Dex straightens. “Close your eyes.”
“No.”
“Dollface.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Cami,” Griffin says, and she turns toward him.
His mouth is already trying to smile.
That gives us away more than anything else.
Her eyes narrow further. “You people are terrible at surprises.”
“Just let us give you the damn present,” I tell her.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
She closes her eyes.
Dex gestures at Griffin.
Griffin reaches for the buttons of his shirt.
“Unbutton faster,” Dex says.
Cami’s eyes immediately fly open.
“Hey!”
“No peeking,” Dex says.
“Someone was stripping.”
Griffin laughs under his breath and opens his shirt enough to expose the left side of his chest.
Cami freezes.
Her mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Her eyes lock onto the clear second-skin bandage, onto the black lines beneath it, onto the nineteen sitting directly over Griffin’s heart.
“Oh.”
It’s barely a sound.
Ronan quietly begins rolling his sleeve.
Her head turns.
She sees his forearm.
Then mine.
Three.
Her hand rises to her mouth.
Dex smiles.
And drops his pants.
Cami makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.
“DEX!”
“What? You needed to see it.”
“Your entire ass is almost out.”
“You’re welcome.”
Clay pushes away from the wall. “Jesus Christ, man.”
Dex turns slightly, revealing the tattoo high on the inside of his thigh.
Clay immediately looks away. “I did not need to see that much of you before breakfast.”
“Intimidated.”
“I’m a firefighter. I’ve seen corpses less upsetting.”
That gets Cami laughing.
Actually laughing.
But there are tears running down her face now.
She reaches for Griffin first, her fingertips stopping before they touch the bandage.
“Over your heart?”
His answer is simple.
“Yeah.”
Her face crumples.
Fuck.
Griffin catches her around the waist before she decides whether she’s hugging him, and she buries her face against his shoulder.
He closes his eyes and slides one hand into her hair.
“I’m going to ruin my makeup,” she mumbles into his shirt.
“I don’t care.”
“I care,” her mother calls through the door.
That makes Cami laugh again.
She pulls away from Griffin and goes to Ronan.
Her fingers curl carefully around his wrist, below the tattoo.
“You put it where you have to look at it.”
Ronan glances down. “That was intentional.”
Her eyes flood again.
“Fuck you.”
His mouth lifts. “I assume that means you like it.”
She hugs him.