Chapter 22
RAF
The buzzing of the tattoo gun drowns out everything else– Ford’s mindless humming, the distant echo of sports highlights Wes left on the living room TV, even the steady thud of my own pulse in my ears.
It’s oddly calming. I’m straddling a kitchen chair backwards, bare from the waist up, arms braced across the backrest as Ford leans over my left shoulder and shades in the crown on the skull he’s been working for two weeks straight.
The burn of the needle is the only thing keeping me in my body; everything else is just white noise and static.
“Quit twitching,” Ford grumbles, the needle biting into my skin. “You’re gonna make me fuck up the shading.”
“Don’t fuck it up, then,” I snap, not moving an inch.
He snorts, wiping a rag over my skin to clear the smear of blood and ink before getting back to it.
The first session was pure pain, but I need the hurt.
I crave it. Every time he hits a nerve, I feel my teeth clench, my hands tightening around the wooden slats of the chair. I don’t let it show, obviously.
It’s been three days since the boathouse party, and I haven’t been able to think about anything but the way Ava sounded when I finally ripped into her.
She’s everywhere and nowhere, like a ghost haunting the periphery of my vision.
Even now, I can smell her– cherry vodka and vanilla skin– and it pisses me off how bad I want her again.
I close my eyes, counting Ford’s breaths, the dull ache blooming beneath my shoulder blade. It’s almost enough to drown out the fact that she’s in every goddamn thought I have.
Almost.
The apartment door swings open, letting in a slice of cold air from the hall, followed by the click of boots on hardwood.
I don’t look, but I know it’s her. I know it by the way Ford’s hands go still for a second, then double down on the next pass with the gun, like he’s showing off.
Rather than making some dumb joke about her timing, Ford just keeps working, pretending not to notice as Ava walks in.
Her backpack’s slung over one shoulder, hair twisted up in that messy bun she wears when she doesn’t give a shit.
She doesn’t say hi. Just sets her bag down, shrugs out of her jacket, and moves to the fridge, like it’s normal to walk in on your stepbrother half-naked, getting inked by a guy who forcibly tattooed your ass.
Ford’s the first to acknowledge her, but only because the silence gets awkward after a minute. “Where you been, princess?” he asks, not looking up from my skin. “Thought you’d be home hours ago.”
“Library,” she replies flatly, grabbing a can of seltzer from the fridge and cracking it open. “Finally caught up on that week of class I missed.” She takes a long pull, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, glancing over at us. “Where’s Wes?”
“Gym,” I grunt.
She nods, moving closer, her gaze going straight to my shoulder. “That’s new,” she says, a little softer, like she’s surprised I let anyone close enough to touch me. “What’s it for?”
Ford answers for me. “King skull,” he says, dragging the needle through another swipe of gray. “We’re all getting them.”
“Cute,” Ava clucks, lips curling in a smug grin. “Matching bestie tattoos.”
Ford smirks. “Or, you know, a warning to anyone who tries to test us.”
She rolls her eyes, folding her arms and leaning on the table next to us. The hem of her skirt rides up just enough to show the soft skin of her upper thighs, and I have to look away or I’ll lose my shit. “It’s actually… really pretty,” she says.
Ford barks a laugh. “Pretty,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Just what every guy wants to hear about his tattoo.” He blows out a breath, then adds, “It’s badass, you mean.”
She shrugs, not backing down. “You know what I mean.”
Ford wipes my shoulder again, hazel eyes glinting. “How’s your tattoo doing?” he asks absently. “Skin still blistered?”
“It’s healed,” she says.
“Show me,” Ford demands, flicking the gun off.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m good.”
He doesn’t let it go. “Now, Ava baby. Don’t make me ask twice.” His tone is playful, but I know he’s not kidding. When Ford saw what the Dollhouse did to her tattoo in their effort to remove it, I swear he almost fucking cried.
Which would’ve been a first, considering he’s incapable of feelings.
Ava sighs, then spins around, hands on her hips, and lifts the back of her skirt just enough to show the edge of the tattoo peeking above her panties.
They’re white cotton, innocent as hell, which somehow makes them even hotter.
Ford leans in, squinting at the skin, then reaches out and slides the fabric aside without asking, exposing the ink.
“Looks good,” he says, letting go with a snap. “You ready for me to fix it?”
She yanks her skirt down and shoots him a look that would kill a weaker man. “Yeah, sure. I’ll make an appointment.”
“How about now?” Ford presses, licking his thumb and rubbing at my shoulder to clean off a smear. “I got time.”
Ava glances at me, then at him. “Aren’t you working on Raf?”
Ford flicks the gun back on, letting it buzz loud enough to rattle my teeth. “Just finished,” he lies, like I’m not still bleeding.
“Bullshit,” I growl, “You just started the fucking mandible.”
He grins, all teeth. “Whatever. I can multitask.” He turns to Ava, tossing her a paper towel. “Wipe it down and grab the box of needles from the cabinet. I’ll set you up after this pass.”
She lingers, arms crossed, eyes on the tattoo as Ford goes back to work.
There’s something about having her watch that makes my skin crawl, but I don’t tell her to leave.
I can feel her gaze on my back, the heat of it, like she’s memorizing every line.
The part of me that wants to tell her to fuck off is at war with the part that wants to turn around, pin her to the counter, and fuck her senseless.
Ford knows it, too. He leans in, voice low enough for only me to hear. “You want her naked, just say the word,” he murmurs, wagging his brows.
I glare back at him over my shoulder.
He keeps shading, the sound filling the air, and it’s an exercise in pure self-control not to look at my stepsister. Not to stare at the swell of her tits in her low cut top, or the way her hair falls loose around her face when she leans in for a better look.
“You got a fight coming up, right?” she asks, like it’s nothing, like we’re just three friends shooting the shit instead of a pack of wolves waiting to eat each other alive.
“Next Saturday,” I mumble.
Ford grins. “There’s gonna be a scout there.”
Ava blinks. “Like… for the UFC?”
“Something like that,” Ford replies, eyes on his work. “If he does well, he could get a shot at the circuit. Maybe even go pro.”
I grunt. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does,” Ford pushes, pausing to dip the needle into fresh ink. “Once we take down your old man, the sky’s the limit, bro.”
I shoot Ford a warning look over my shoulder that says to keep his mouth shut, but he just waves me off.
“What, it’s not like she’s gonna tell him,” he laughs. “The guy fucking sold her.” He turns to Ava, flicking the gun off again. “We’ve been trying to take that bastard down for a while,” he provides, filling her in like she has any right to know.
Her mouth tightens. “Good,” she replies, jerking a nod. “I hope you do.”
I snort. “It’s not that simple.”
She shrugs. “Nothing ever is.”
My phone rings, the shrill sound of it slicing through the apartment. Not a normal ring, but the custom sound that tells me exactly who’s calling.
The Invictus.
Ford and I both snap to attention, him setting down the tattoo gun, me reaching for my phone on the table.
Ava’s eyes flick between us, wondering what the hell’s going on, but Ford just brings a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet as my thumb hovers over the answer button on my screen.
For a second, I consider letting it go to voicemail. Then I remember what happened the last time I ignored a call.
I answer, putting it on speaker. “Romero.”
The voice on the other end is modulated, robotic and disguised as always. “The Doll’s initiation has been set. Next Thursday. You’ll deliver her to the crypt at midnight for her presentation.”
My hand tightens around the phone. “We’ll be there,” I reply, my voice flat. “Anything else?”
There’s a pause, then the call cuts off.
Ava lets out the breath she’s been holding, eyes rounding in fear. “What does that mean?” she asks.
Ford grins. “Means it’s time to make this official, Ava baby.”
Her eyes dart between us, searching for a lifeline that isn’t there. I stand up, the chair scraping against the hardwood, and turn to face her fully.
“Congrats,” I say hollowly. “Next week, you get to find out what the inside of the crypt looks like. Hope you’re ready.”
Ava doesn’t flinch. Not visibly, anyway. But there’s something in her eyes, a glint of steel that wasn’t there before.
She’s learning. Getting stronger.
Good. She’ll need it.
“Bring it,” she says, lifting her chin in challenge.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me want her even more.