Chapter 11 #3
I felt the slight sting and vibration as he worked on the first outline, but it wasn’t the pain that had my heart thudding—it was the strange intimacy of it all.
His focus, the weight of his body angled above mine, the heat of Cartagena clinging to my skin.
There was no seduction in his touch, no flirtation in the glide of his gloved hand as he cleaned the ink or tilted my body slightly.
Just intent. Control. And something unspoken threading between us.
“You know,” he said casually, eyes still trained on his work, “you might be the most interesting person Rafael’s brought into our world. And trust me, that’s saying a lot.”
I didn’t respond. Not with words. Just kept my gaze locked on the wooden ceiling beams above us and tried not to let my body react to the burn of ink being pushed into skin.
He kept talking. “I did this one for him,” he said, nodding toward his own shoulder, inked with a blackened wolf skull over roses. “He wanted something symbolic. Said it was for his mother.”
I turned my eyes toward him slightly, curious despite myself. “She the one who gave him the scar,” I murmured.
He nodded. “Yeah. That story’s darker than anything you’ve heard. He never talks about it, though. Keeps his past buried deep. But it’s in him. You can see it if you look close.”
I stayed quiet, letting his words hang in the air as the buzzing continued. He worked with a steady rhythm, wiping and shading and occasionally glancing at me to make sure I wasn’t about to faint.
“You’ve got a high pain tolerance,” he commented.
“You’d be surprised what kind of pain I’ve gotten used to.”
He smirked. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”
More buzzing. More silence. Then his voice dipped lower.
“Rafael and I… we’ve seen a lot together. And we’re not so different when it comes to certain things. He likes control. Power. Pain in the right places.”
I arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“He’s got kinks. The kind you don’t learn—you inherit. I’ve seen the women leave his place marked, bruised, still wanting more.”
My breath caught. Not out of shock. But from the way he said it. Calm. Certain. Like it was a simple truth, not something meant to scare or shock.
“And you?” I asked, finally.
He chuckled. “Oh, I’ve got my own tastes. Some that would make you curious. Others that would make you run. But I don’t push. That’s the difference between me and Rafael. He takes what he wants when he knows he can. Me? I wait to be invited.”
The tattoo gun slowed, then stopped for a moment. He looked at the piece so far, then cleaned it gently. “You’re doing good,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. My chest rose and fell steadily, heart pulsing beneath the outline he’d just carved into me. The red thread around the dagger. My mark. A beginning and an end all in one.
“We’re almost there,” he said.
I closed my eyes and let the weight of his words sink in as the buzz started again.
The buzz of the machine slowed to a hum before finally dying, and the sudden silence felt heavier than the sound ever did.
My skin still tingled where the needle had kissed it, a subtle burn pulsing beneath the surface.
I lay there, chest rising and falling, unsure if it was from the pain or the weight of everything Yuri had just said.
“Done,” he murmured, leaning back and wiping the ink with careful precision. “You did good, krasivaya. Barely flinched.”
I blinked, dragging my gaze up to meet his. “I don’t flinch.”
He smirked. “No, I guess you don’t.”
Yuri stood, reaching for a small mirror propped up on a nearby shelf. “Here,” he said, bringing it over. “Take a look at your war paint.”
I pushed myself up slowly, careful not to shift too much, and took the mirror from his hand. My breath caught.
There, etched between the swell of my breasts, was a dagger coiled in a single blood-red thread. Delicate, yet sharp. Elegant, but violent. The ink was still raw and slightly raised, the skin around it pink and irritated, but it was beautiful. Mine.
A promise. A warning.
“You like it?” he asked, watching me closely.
I set the mirror down and met his eyes. “I love it,” I said quietly.
He nodded once, serious now. “Keep it clean. No sun. No pool for at least a few days or it’ll get infected. And don’t pick at the scabs, no matter how bad it itches.”
I nodded, fingers ghosting over the gauze he carefully applied. “Got it.”
Yuri reached down, picked up my dress, and handed it to me. “You might want to put this on before your Bratva prince sees what I did. Not that it’ll save me from getting shot, but at least it buys me a few seconds to say goodbye.”
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head as I slid the dress back over my head, adjusting the neckline carefully over the new tattoo. “He won’t shoot you.”
“He might stab me. I’ve seen the look he gets when someone touches what he thinks is his.”
I paused, gaze flicking to his. “I’m not his.”
He grinned. “Doesn’t matter. He already thinks you are.”
I didn’t answer that. Because I didn’t know what I was either.
Yuri leaned against the doorway as I stepped past him. “Go on,” he said, flicking the now-empty bottle of rum into a nearby bin. “Before he tears my pretty face off.”
I rolled my eyes and walked out, the cool air of the hallway brushing over my skin as I headed back toward the pool. Every step I took felt different now. Like something had shifted beneath my skin. Not just the ink, but something deeper. Something alive.
The thread around the dagger burned gently beneath my dress as if reminding me it was there. As if it belonged there.
By the time I reached the wide glass doors leading to the pool, I spotted Rafael immediately.
He stood with his back to the water, dressed in black pants and a fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The lights around the pool bathed him in gold and shadow. He wasn’t talking to anyone—just staring out at the water, drink in hand, his expression unreadable.
But the second his eyes found me, I felt it. His gaze dipped. Paused. Narrowed.
It was subtle, but I knew what he saw—what he hadn’t seen before. The way my dress dipped lower now. The fresh ink barely visible in the low light.
His jaw clenched, and I knew before I even reached him that he saw everything.
And still… I kept walking. Straight toward the fire.
His eyes didn’t move from mine. Not once. Not when I crossed the space between us. Not when the hem of my dress shifted with the breeze. And especially not when I came to a full stop just a breath away.
The heat in his gaze wasn’t new. But tonight—it felt sharpened. Like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.
“Did Yuri touch you?” Rafael asked, voice low, unreadable.
I tilted my head slightly, pretending not to notice the way his grip tightened around the glass in his hand. “Would it matter if he did?”
His jaw flexed. Just once. Subtle. But I noticed it.
“I told you to be careful with him.”
“And I told you I’m not yours to protect.”
His eyes dropped again—this time deliberately. Not at my legs. Not at my mouth. At the faint line that dipped beneath the neckline of my dress. The fresh tattoo.
“You let him mark you.”
“I let me mark me.” I crossed my arms, keeping my voice level. “He just had the hands for it.”
Rafael’s mouth twitched—something between a smirk and a warning. “Yuri’s hands have killed more men than you’ve probably met, Isabella.”
I didn’t flinch.
He stepped in closer, his voice low and smooth. “You think he’s the funny one. The charming one. The one who makes jokes so no one realizes how many monsters he’s buried. But you’d be wrong. He’s the closest thing to a psychopath you’ll ever meet.”
I held his stare, refusing to blink. “I’ve met worse.”
“Doubt it.”
For a moment, neither of us said anything. Tension coiled between us like a live wire. Then he turned slightly, nodding toward the open bar just past the pool. “Come.”
It wasn’t a request.
I followed, brushing past him, catching the subtle scent of something expensive and dark—like cedar and danger.
I cast a quick glance back over my shoulder. Kellan was leaned against the far pillar, arms crossed, scanning the area. Ash was sitting on a lounger, throwing a chip at a lizard by his foot.
They didn’t move. But I knew they were watching. Good.
I slid onto one of the bar stools and crossed one leg over the other as Rafael stepped behind the counter, poured two drinks without looking down, and handed one to me.
Then, his fingers grazed my hair. Not all of it—just the small, newly braided strand. The one Yuri had tied with the red thread.
Rafael held it between his thumb and forefinger like it was some kind of specimen. Then he let it go, letting it fall back against my shoulder.
His voice was silk. “He braided this into your hair.”
I took a slow sip of my drink, ignoring the way my pulse quickened. “Observant.”
He didn’t smile. “Red thread is a Russian symbol. A blood bond. Yuri doesn’t do that for just anyone.”
I looked at him. “Maybe I’m not just anyone.”
“You’re not,” he said simply. “That’s why I’m wondering what game he’s playing.”
I met his stare, unblinking. “I’m the one who agreed. If anyone’s playing games…” I leaned in slightly. “It’s me.”
He studied me, unreadable for a beat. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“You should be.”
I arched a brow. “Like I should be afraid of you?”
He didn’t answer that. Just reached for his own glass and took a slow sip, his eyes still locked on mine.
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then—
The music shifted. Louder. Bolder. The low hum of base vibrating through the floor. I turned around. And there he was.
Yuri, walking in with five women trailing behind him—each of them barely dressed, adorned in silk and lace, like some scene out of a fever dream. One of them blew a kiss at Rafael. Another smiled at Ash.