Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I can get him to come here if you’d like. You don’t have to go to his shop.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure what I want, but I was thinking, you know, ugh, like look through what he can do and see if there’s anything I like.”
“No problem. Once we’re finished here, we’ll go and get it done.”
“We will?”
“Yeah.”
“What about … you know, work? Don’t you have work to do?”
“It can wait. I’ll spend the day with you.” This was a surprise, but it was one I wanted.
I offered him a smile, and then watched as he finished serving breakfast. I looked forward to spending the day with my husband.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Peter
Ivan was nowhere to be found or reached. He was not answering his cell phone, which was probably wise for him, because I was so pissed at him. Ivan had been at lunch yesterday, and rather than cut my wife off, he’d allowed her to keep drinking.
Not only was Ivan gone, but it would seem he’d taken The Beast and The Butcher with him. None of them were answering my calls.
I glanced over at Niamh as we stood in Steve’s tattoo parlor. He was a good guy. Solid. It was why I kept coming back to him. He didn’t get involved in the Bratva shit, but then Ivan had a guy who put his brand on people. The only ink on my body not done by Steve was the Volkov Bratva mark.
Niamh was nervous. I could tell with the tension in her body as she looked over every design. There were a couple she had loved—a dolphin, a flower, a rose, and even a scary-looking tree. I was impressed. I didn’t know why she was doing this, and I didn’t comment.
With no answer from Ivan and his little team, I moved close to Niamh and subtly breathed in the scent of her hair. Today, she’d gone for vanilla. Niamh had two different kinds of shampoo—one vanilla, the other lemon, and both made her hair smell so good.
I wasn’t going to even think about why I was standing at the tattoo artist’s counter, sniffing her hair, or the fact I put my hand on her waist and drew her closer to me. None of this mattered. I was her husband, and that gave me permission to touch her when I wanted, to take care of her, and to just be with her.
“I like this one.” She pointed to a dying rose.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah, I like it, but I also like the dying tree, but you see, it’s not dying, because there are little buds of hope.” She looked up toward Steve. “Is it possible to have multiple buds that look like new growth?”
“Yeah, I can do that for you.”
“Give us a minute, Steve,” I said.
Steve looked at me and then toward Niamh. I wasn’t going to offer an explanation.
With Steve gone, I turned toward Niamh. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because this is what I want,” she said, pointing to the tree.
“You want a dead tree … where?”
“On the inside of my thigh.”
Steve was going to have to touch my wife’s thigh, and now I was having a hard time grasping just what that would mean. I wasn’t happy about it.
“Why?”
“Because, I have a scar on my thigh, and I’ve had it since I was twelve, and it’s a reminder of the fact my father can come and do whatever the hell he likes.”
I knew the scar she was talking about. It was a large red line that hadn’t faded in all that time. It looked like a botched stitching job, and I had a feeling her father probably paid a two-bit doctor to fix her. The wound hadn’t been cleaned properly, and the skin hadn’t knitted together smoothly.
“You’ve gotten tattoos to cover your scars, I just want one on my thigh, to make … I don’t know. I just … it’s what I would like. The tree is not dying and with the buds, it’s like the tree is finally waking up, coming to life.”
And I had a feeling that was how she felt.
I couldn’t stop her from getting a tattoo.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s what I want.”
I wasn’t going to stand in her way, but there was no way I was going to let her have this ink without myself present. So, I called Steve out and allowed him to come and get my wife prepared. He did look like he expected me to just do his magical work, but that wasn’t happening. Even though I wanted to plunge my knife into his guts, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I stayed by her side with my hands clenched into fists, and just accepted another man touching my wife. To help me get through, I imagined killing him in many different ways, over and over again.