"I want you with me. Always."
"Your wish is my command, Sisi," he replies, his voice thick with emotion.
Opening a tube of anesthetic cream, he applies it gently over my skin, his attention wholly focused on spreading it evenly.
After cleaning it, he makes a quick draft in pen, giving me a mirror to check the design.
"Wow," I whisper as I crane my neck to see the entire drawing. The scar is no longer visible under it.
He even added some intricate details to the dagger, making it seem like an ancient relic. The hilt is thicker than the blade, ending with a rounded corner that has an encrusted jewel.
"Ruby," he says when he sees me examine the jewel. "Red like blood. Precious like blood. And beautiful like you."
And just like that he's back to work, focused again on my neck. As if he didn't just melt my heart with a single sentence.
"Tell me if it hurts," he whispers as he brings the tattoo gun to my skin, tracing the sketch he'd made.
It doesn't hurt at all. Like a tickling sensation, I only feel him glide over my skin, his breath hot as it lands right on my ear lobe, making me squeeze my thighs in response.
How is it that he makes every mundane action so hot? I can't help myself even as I know that he needs to concentrate on my neck.
Instead, my eyes take in the great expanse of inked muscle, the flex of his arms, the defined pecs and...
I swallow as my gaze dips lower to his pebbled abdomen, the urge to touch him almost unbearable.
"Done," he says and I almost jerk in my chair. I hadn't been paying attention to anything but him. Although the tattoo isn't big, I'm surprised he's done so quickly.
He cleans the area before giving me the mirror again to survey the final product. The V is clearly defined even as the dagger takes the central stage, immediately drawing the eye to it. For the blood and the ruby he'd chosen a deep red, and as I see the drops fall from the ruby down the blade and towards my collarbone, I can't help but be impressed.
"This is amazing." I breathe out, turning to find him watching me with an inscrutable expression on his face. "What is it?" I frown.
"Hell girl... you have no idea what it's like to see my initials on your skin," he says, his hand hovering on top of the tattoo.
A crazy idea springs into my mind, and I blurt it out before I can think it through.
"Let me give you one, too. Matching tattoos. You can get an A. Here," I point towards his neck, one of the few areas on his body that's not covered in ink.
"You'd draw it on me?" He asks, almost as if he can't quite believe it. I nod, and a wide smile spreads all over his face.
"Do it!" He turns, giving me the side of his neck—the same area he'd done my design on—quickly going through the basics of tattooing.
Not a moment later and I have the tattoo gun in my hand, the tip touching his skin as I try my best to keep my fingers from trembling.
I can't believe he'd so readily agree to this, especially since I know he'd kept his neck clean of any ink so that it doesn't peek out from his clothing. With the initial I'm drawing, it's bound to show and let everyone know who he belongs to.
And that makes me feel fuzzy inside.
I focus on getting the letter right, doing a cursive A instead of a standard one. As I cross the middle of the letter, I add a drop of blood falling to the ground to emulate my own design. Although it's nowhere near his level of skill, the letter is clean and simple. After I add one last stroke, I lean back, surveying my work.
"I think it's nice," I tell him proudly.
He takes the mirror, inspecting it, and a reverent smile appears on his face.
"Thank you," he says, unable to take his eyes off it. "Now I can have you with me always too."
It takes a while before we can move on to the next tattoo, mostly because Vlad seems to be quite enamored of his new piece of ink, grabbing the mirror and staring at it every few minutes.
"Have you thought about what you want there?" He asks when he finally puts the mirror aside.
"Yes," I say.
I'd had a long time to think about what I'd like to take the place of the odious cross that reminds me of my worst nightmares.
In the beginning, I just wished it was gone. But with time, I realized that it's still a mark that proves I've been through fire and made it out alive.
Picking a pen and a paper, I start showing him how I'd like the cross to be changed into a different design.
Embedded deep in my skin, the scar is pretty gnarly, the edges a deep pink due to the fact that it had never healed properly. Just thinking of the pain it had caused me for months on end renews my anger towards Sacre Coeur and everything I'd had to endure there.
"That's amazing, hell girl," Vlad finally speaks when I'm done. "And it embodies everything you stand for."
I nod, pleased he gets it.
After we go over all the details, he begins by sketching the image on my skin. Soon, he's picking up the tattoo gun, starting to etch the permanent ink into my skin.
This one is more complicated, and it takes twice as long to get everything right.
"What do you think?" he asks, his tone hopeful as he puts the gun down, handing me the mirror.
Taking it, I start studying his work, immediately in awe by the level of precision.
"You're really good at this." I praise him, and I swear I note the smallest tinge of a blush on his cheeks.
Smiling to myself, I continue to look in the mirror. He'd perfectly depicted a woman being burned at the stake, the body of the cross serving as the wood holding the woman captive, her hands and feet tied, her mouth gagged. Small flames engulf the stake as the woman slowly succumbs to her death. Still, her eyes are unflinching as she's facing her execution with courage, knowing it's not her fault she's being punished. It's just the world she lives in that's unaccepting of those differences.
She bears the mark of the devil, and her entire life she's been shunned for it, everyone seeking to condemn her for something that was not her fault.
But in the end, even as she knew her life was going to end, she preferred dying for her principles and ideas, her chin raised high, her convictions unwavering. She never once considered changing to accommodate other people's beliefs—never taking the easy way out.
And just like that, I find myself in the drawing. My entire life I'd been conditioned to be a certain way, condemned the moment I didn't fit other people's mold.
But as I stare at the tattoo—the permanent drawing making its house on my skin—I can't help but be happy with all the choices I'd made.
Yes, I'd suffered for being different. But I hadn't conformed. I'd stayed true to myself, and I'd been rewarded for the entire ordeal.
Placing the mirror down, I direct my gaze towards him—my prize.
Because I would have never reached this point if I hadn't held on to my true self. I hadn't let those nuns beat obedience into me. I hadn't let the mean girls destroy my core. And because of that I am here.
With him.
Both with our idiosyncrasies, both matching and complementing the other. I know we were made for each other, our very beings vibing with one another.
"It's perfect." I whisper, tears already at the corner of my eyes.
He's managed to illustrate exactly what I'd been feeling for years.
"You're perfect, hell girl," he comes closer to me, his thumb under my chin as he prompts me to look into his eyes. "You're the bravest, most wonderful woman I've ever met. And because of that, I know how lucky I am that you forgave me," he says, his mouth coming down on my cheek, his tongue slipping out to lick one tear.
"I know how tightly you hold on to your principles. And I know what it must have cost you to forgive me." He continues, moving to the other cheek and repeating the movement, swallowing up all my tears. "For that, I can't tell you how grateful I am."
I raise my eyes to his, noting the ravage on his features as he gazes at me with love, sorrow, and more love.
Adoration.
It might be more apt to call it adoration. The way I know he could never last without me. The way I know I could never last without him.
And suddenly I'm at peace with my past. All the resentment settles down in my heart as I realize everything happened not to tear me down, but to strengthen me.
Make me strong enough for him.
"Why, Vlad, you might actually sound like a romantic," I poke him playfully, a little overwhelmed by emotion.
"Of course," he smiles, the tension from his face gone. "I'm adopting romance as my new religion, with you as its goddess."
His glib tongue never fails to amaze me.
"Is that so?" I ask, trailing my finger down his chest, once again marveling at the hard wall of muscle that meets my touch.
"Yes," he rasps out, his voice full and husky. "I'll worship you," he starts, and my pulse picks up, "I'll kiss the ground you walk on," my breath catches in my throat, his words starting to affect me, the room suddenly too hot, "I'll be your servant, your whipping boy, whatever you want me to be," he continues and my eyes snap shut, his deep voice caressing my senses and making me shiver.
"Hmm," I murmur, feeling him so close, yet too far, "your arguments are pretty convincing," I manage to say, "I guess I could allow you by my side," I add cheekily, and he smirks. "But I thought you were my god," I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Still am," he winks at me, seductive arrogance dripping from his crooked smile, his dimple prominent and begging to be kissed. "But what's a god without his goddess? We rule together, hell girl." His hand comes up to my face, his thumb brushing against my lips as he backs me into the wall.
"Remember, there's no Vlad without Sisi." His intent gaze on me, I don't miss the way his pupils dilate, his entire body ready to ravish me.
One arm snaked around my waist, he effortlessly lifts me in his arms, my legs wrapping around his waist.
"And no Sisi without Vlad," I complete the sentence, his mouth claiming mine in a searing kiss that has my toes curling in excitement.
Holding on to him, I let him show me just how much we're one half of a whole—always needing the other to be complete.
"Tighter," he commands, his voice stern as he hovers behind me, his eyes sharply assessing the shape of my fist.
"Like this," he tsks, coming closer. His front fitted to my front, he wraps his hand over my fist, dwarfing it.
It's not the first time I've noticed that his giant hands seem to swallow mine.
He carefully organizes my fingers in a tighter fit, his feet knocking at mine as he arranges my stance, too.
I wobble slightly as he kicks my feet apart, my position now emulating his.
"When someone tries something," he whispers, his voice deep and grave, "you kick first, ask questions later. Or even better," I feel a smile pull at his lips, "kill first, ask questions... never," he chuckles, and my own lips twitch.
"Come on, you know I've gotten better." I complain slightly, half turning my head to bat my lashes at him. The action catches him by surprise, as I knew it would, his eyes zoning in on my poor attempts at flirtation. Still, it's enough to have him wholly enthralled, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows forcibly, his pupils dilating.
Taking advantage of the millisecond his guard is down, I grab on to his shirt, positioning my hands and legs the way he'd taught me in order to balance weight much greater than my own. My grip solid, I throw all my strength into moving him.
He's like a rock—heavy and unbudging. And even though my technique is flawless, I can see I'm not likely to gain the upper hand on him. Not even by using his weakness—batting my lashes at him.
There's a split second reaction as I note the corner of his mouth tug up before he lets his body become slack. Barely realizing what I'm doing, I'm kicking him to the ground, his body falling effortlessly—suspiciously effortlessly.
Vlad even has the gall to complain about the pain as his back hits the hard floor.
I simply raise an eyebrow at him, knowing he just did it to please me.
"Again," I cross my arms in front of me, beckoning him to resume a fighting position.
Almost from the beginning he'd insisted on teaching me how to fight, saying he'd feel much at ease if he knew I could take care of myself.
We'd done some basic training in New York, but ever since we got here, he'd been more rigid with the training schedule, giving me lessons in shooting, knife fighting and fist fighting. To my great surprise, he hadn't been kidding when he'd said the entire basement is custom made. There's a shooting range equipped with everything to ensure I become proficient in hitting my targets, but there are also a couple training rooms—one specifically designed for knives, and one resembling a gym.
I'd been dumbstruck about the size of the basement, but Vlad had recounted he'd expanded it under the gardens too, not only under the house. He's essentially imitating his own underground bunker from New York.
Sometimes this gives me pause, and it makes me wonder if this is all he knows—living underground and away from people.
Certainly, he seems more comfortable under a layer of cement.
"Stop treating me like I'm fragile," I tell him. No matter how much he wants to train me, he can't help himself from holding back.
"You're not fragile," he says as he gets back to his feet. "You're anything but fragile, Sisi," his hand cups my cheek as he brings me into him. "But I'm a brute, and I know my strength. So I can't not be careful with you."
I roll my eyes at him, a little annoyed that he's not trying harder, but understanding where he's coming from.
"Fine," I huff out, taking a step back and assuming a fighting stance again.
We do a few more rounds where he teaches me some parrying moves and how to evade capture before we focus strictly on building my strength through weightlifting.
"You're doing great," he praises when I finish one set, my arms already sore.
"You're not a bad teacher." I shrug, taking the towel he offers and wiping the sweat off my face and body.
Vlad had thought of everything, and he'd bought me an entire set of gym clothes, most of them involving yoga pants and a sports bra, which retrospectively hadn't been the best decision.
Not when he can barely take his eyes off my boobs when we're doing an exercise. Or the way I know he's staring at my ass when I squat.
I might have even gone out of my way to tease him a little, flexing my ass or bouncing my boobs when I know he's looking but pretending not to.
The reaction is immediate and he's promptly caught. He's not the only one with betraying clothes, and his sweatpants do little to hide just how affected he is.
After hours of training, we finally finish for the day, quickly showering before going out in the city for dinner.
"Tomorrow we're doing knives," he speaks as the waiter brings us our food.
"Yes," I exclaim, bumping my fist in the air.
He'd made a strict schedule for me, with every day accounted for. Somehow, though, he'd decided that the focus should be on building my strength and learning hand to hand combat. So he'd only set up one day for knives and one day for shooting.
"A weapon can always be taken from you," he'd remark whenever I'd pout about it. He knows that I've developed an affinity for knives—probably because of him. Still, he hadn't budged in his conviction.
Vlad's lips pull up in a smile at my excitement and I cannot help but notice how handsome he is, freshly showered and wearing a dashing suit. Dressed all in black, it only serves to emphasize his striking features even more.
His hair is longer, refusing to cut it ever since I'd complimented him on it. And I do like it. It makes him seem younger, more carefree. Especially with the way it curls around the end, giving it a tousled appearance.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he suddenly says, taking me by surprise with the change in subject. His eyes are fixed on me and it's like he's devouring me with his gaze.
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br /> A blush creeps up my cheeks at his scrutiny.
When he'd told me he planned on taking me out on a dinner date, I'd tried to put some effort into my appearance.
Since I hadn't had a lot of practice with make-up and dressing up, I'd quickly searched the internet for some ideas. I'd managed to put on some eyeliner and mascara as well as a reddish lipstick to contrast with my pale hair.
I'd also chosen to go with a lacey off-white dress, not too long but not too short either since Vlad had been very vehement in his refusal to let me leave the house if there was too much skin showing.
"You should have been a poet, not a killer." I retort, bringing my glass of lemonade closer and placing my lips around the straw.
"Can't I be both?" He raises one eyebrow. "Although imagine if I could kill people with my words," he says pensively, going in depth about the merits of personally killing someone personally versus via proxy.
"There's this manga, Death Note" he starts, explaining it's some Japanese comic book, "and the protagonist acquires a notebook in which once he writes someone's name, they promptly die."
"Don't tell me you'd like one of those too?" I ask, a little amused. Although, as he excitedly recounts the events from Death Note, I find myself invested in the story and its twists. Certainly, I can see the appeal to someone like Vlad, who might just be the nerd of nerds.
"I don't know. Depending on my goals," he adds after spending some time thinking about it. "If my aim was world domination, then a death note would definitely be more helpful than my bare hands. Especially when it comes to the evidence left behind, since forensic science is evolving and the tech is more sensitive than ever to the smallest amounts of trace evidence."
"But you don't want that." I say confidently, because I know him. He'd never opt for world domination because it would be too boring for him. Maybe he'd enjoy one day of it, but after that he'd want to return to his usual routine of murder and mayhem.
"Indeed," he drawls, his lips spread in a wide smile, his white teeth gleaming in the dimly lit restaurant and making him look like the predator he is.
"World domination is for the weak," he adds. "I prefer to do things my own way." He brings his arms on the table, cracking his knuckles.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 53