Inked Destiny

Nineteen

Derrick stood at the garage entrance. The smell of grease and oil, the blast of Mexican music and the sound of power tools along with shouts in Spanish all bringing back memories. The earlier ones were almost sweet, but the later ones, painful, though he straightened his spine, not allowing them to be more than just a scratch against his toughened emotional fortitude.

Never again! I refuse to be that needy again!

He steadfastly refused to look at the workbench where a particularly horrifying example of neediness had happened on his last visit here, when he’d tracked Emilio down after he’d been a no-show for their date.

I’m not that weak person anymore.

He touched the drawing in his pocket as proof of it. Etaín needed him and here he was.

Emilio looked up just as Derrick found him among the overall-clad mechanics. His smile was cocky, as though he’d known it was only a matter of time before Derrick came around again.

Oh please! Derrick nearly rolled his eyes. Emilio was such a boy compared to Quinn.

He strutted forward, hips swaying to let Emilio get a good look at just what he was missing. This was the new Derrick, confident, strong, loved.

Now that caused a crazy fluttering in his chest because Quinn hadn’t spoken the words yet. But it was there. He absolutely knew it was.

And if Quinn hadn’t said them, Etaín had. If anything, she was a much harder case than Quinn. Much, much more guarded emotionally.

“Miss me?” he asked when he reached Emilio.

“Looking good, Derrick, looking good.” Emilio’s eyes dropped in a once-over that lingered at the crotch of very tight jeans.

Derrick preened. Not that he was interested of course. But he’d dressed to get answers and answers he’d get if there were any. Now for the flattery.

“You’re looking divine, absolutely delicious yourself.” There was a modicum of truth to be found in the compliment, though really, baggy grease-stained overalls did nothing for anyone. The boots on the other hand…

Heavy, rugged, manly. He might personally prefer heels when he wanted to look good, but he appreciated other footwear and what it said about the wearer. Put a naked Quinn in those same boots, polished to look like a soldier on leave or a policeman ready for some off-duty action…

Oops, there was a downside to tight pants but…

Use it baby. Use it.

He gave his jeans a tug and nearly laughed at the way Emilio’s chest puffed out. Cocky rooster thought the hard-on was for him.

“So what brings you around?” Emilio said.

This was the tricky part. This was where experience or having a taste for books with private investigator heroes would have come in handy. He bit his bottom lip, worried that maybe this was a mistake, one that would lead to Quinn being pissed or getting in trouble with Sean.

Emilio glanced over Derrick’s left shoulder, at the spot where a window allowed people in the office and waiting area to see into the garage. “Look. Whatever gives, my boss is going to come in and cap my ass for not working in about thirty seconds.”

“Okay. Okay.” Deep breath. “You know a guy named Marc Ruiz?”

“I know a couple of them.”

Derrick pulled the picture out of his jacket, unfolding it and showing it to Emilio. “This Marc Ruiz.”

“Why are you asking?” Was that a yes?

“I’m helping a friend. She’s trying to track down some guys she put art on. It’s for a book project, but it’s all hush-hush right now.”

Emilio looked down at the picture. “No. Don’t know him.”

How much to say without making this sound like a police investigation? Mentioning the rap sheep was definitely a no-no, but LA seemed safe enough. “My friend said he was a gang member in LA, it was the same one I thought you told me you had cousins in.”

“Like I said, I don’t know him.”

“Okay, okay.” Emilio sounded defensive, it might mean he did know but it might also be because the teen who’d been sweeping the floor at the other end of the garage was now a couple of steps away, the broom abandoned for a cellphone, and Emilio didn’t want anyone thinking he’d give out information about a gang member.

The teen fired off a burst of Spanish at Emilio. Derrick understood the gist of it, something along the lines of, “Boss just noticed you got company. Better send your boyfriend away.”

“Thanks, Drooler.”

Derrick shuddered. Drooler. What a street name. Pathetic. And the art visible on his hands and neck practically screamed gangbanger, or wannabe.

Derrick folded the sketch and returned it to his pocket. “See you around.”

Emilio stopped him from turning with a hand on his arm. Once there would have been a little zing but now, nothing. No tingles. No regret. No heat.

“You with someone?”

“Definitely taken.”

A delicious shiver went through him. Taken, that word embodied sex with Quinn.

The hand fell away. “Too bad. We had some good times together.”

It didn’t stop you from breaking my heart and tossing me away like trash.

No! Said and done. Over with.

The new Derrick did not dwell on past mistakes or past hurts. The new Derrick left without a backward glance, though he felt eyes drilling into his back.

Sheer joy, there was no other way to describe it. It exploded in Etaín’s chest and spread outward the moment they pulled to a stop in front of Stylin’ Ink.

Bryce was visible through the glass, standing behind the counter, hand twirling in a hurry-up motion that whoever he was talking to on the phone couldn’t see. He smiled when he caught sight of her, and she returned it, feeling it all the way to her soul.

The men in the car with her were forgotten until Eamon stopped her with firm fingers around her wrist and a softly spoken command. “Wait. Allow Liam and Myk to exit the car first.”

Even that brief delay was almost more than she could stand. She couldn’t give this part of her life up. She’d slowly wither and die inside.

Back doors opened by beautifully lethal guards indicated a lack of danger. Eamon released her to get out of the car, Myk only barely managing to precede her into Stylin’ Ink.

“We’ve got ourselves a princess in the house,” Bryce called out, coming around to enfold her in a tight hug.

Her arms snaked around his lean waist, her grip as fierce as his. “Princess? You trying to ruin my kickass reputation by tagging me with that prissy nickname?”

“Kickass, yeah, if that means somehow managing to walk away after terrible shit has gone down.” He trembled despite the tough talk, whispering, “Fuck, Etaín! Fuck!”

Guilt grabbed her by the throat, choking her words off as effectively as the Dragon did. She closed her eyes, cheek pressed to his until she was able to speak. “I should have come back to the fund-raiser, at least for a few minutes.”

“Forget that shit. You had busted up ribs.” His arms loosened immediately, a small jolt going through him. “You good?”

She hugged him tighter in demonstration. “I’m good.”

As good as she was going to be considering she was a freaking near-Elf who visited with a Dragon that may or may not be real.

Jamaal joined them, hands covered by blue latex, his arms bare, showing off muscles and art and making her face heat with the remembered image of DaWanda above him, her breasts in his hands.

There was a buzz against her senses, the nearly overwhelming awareness that he wore more than one of her tattoos. When he grabbed her up in a fierce hug, she balled her hands into tight fists against the thin material of his shirt, shivering not just at the prospect of invading his privacy, but at stealing his memories.

Fire slid through the ink on her arms and into her wrists. She would have wrenched herself away had she not been frozen in place, at least long enough to hear the Dragon’s sibilant voice. Sssafe. My gift.

As fast as the searing heat had come, it winked out. She tightened her grip on Jamaal, heart thundering. There had to be a way to prevent the hijacking of her body, though true anger and fear at the loss of control was obliterated beneath relief.

Jamaal was safe from her. She half expected the sigil representing servitude to blaze across her retinas.

He released her. Bryce said, “I cleared your schedule for the week.”

She gave Eamon props for not immediately telling Bryce she wasn’t coming back to work. Her throat clogged when reality settled in, that losing this might not happen by Eamon’s decree but by her own choice.

How could she continue to come here if it put those she loved at risk? How could she continue to apply ink when loss of privacy might be the least of the danger her tattoos presented?

Bryce interrupted the painful introspection with hands on her shoulders. “Thought you said you were good.”

She blinked away unshed tears. “It just feels like forever since things were normal.”

He moved behind the counter. “Speaking of normal, one of the shelter workers came around with your phone.”

Fishing it out of a drawer, he handed it to her as Jamaal went back to his workstation. Longing swelling with the hum of his machine, creating a hollow emptiness at the prospect of losing this. Somehow she had to find a way to keep this as part of her life and make it safe for everyone.

Even if it meant servitude?

A glance down at inked wrists, and the sigil shimmered in her mind as if already on her skin and entwined with the bands her mother had done. She blinked, clearing the mark from her sight before powering up the cellphone.

See but remain unseen.

Her mother’s mantra. Her mother’s life.

No longer applicable.

It would take hours to return all the calls from people who’d heard about the drive-by in front of the shelter. The concern humbled her. It firmed her resolve to stay part of this human world in a way that mattered.

Slipping the phone into her pocket she turned just as Derrick breezed in. “Yummy! You’ve got Mr. Edible with you along with that luscious, tasty morsel you call a boyfriend.”

“A permanent mate,” Eamon murmured, his amusement making her smile.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she told Derrick.

He grinned, hugging her and whispering, “I can hardly wait for a blow-by-blow description.”

With emphasis on blow. “Not happening.”

His mouth formed a pout against her cheek. “Spoilsport.”

She felt carefree despite the slide of fire down her arms and with it the sharp awareness of the connection between her and the Dragon. “The details would make you green with envy.”

“Maybe in the past, but not now. I do have Quinn.”

She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “He’s okay?”

“Better than okay.” The purr said it all, but as the moment stretched, her easy happiness fled when there was no sibilant offering of sssafe, my gift.

Worry tightened her chest, and though she suspected Eamon would consider her foolish for attempting it, she reached out mentally, seeking the Dragon, seeking reassurance and gaining nothing except a penetrating dread, a dark foreboding that Derrick might be used against her, or worse, that she might cause him harm.

She eased out of the hug, feeling both haunted and hunted, not daring to risk more touch of skin to skin.

Eamon watched the play of emotions over Etaín’s face, from happiness and joy to something that tugged at his heart, opening a crack in his resolve to separate her completely from the human world. For the first time since standing on the other side of the window and being horrified by the reality of how she used her gift, he considered that there might be room for compromise, that if he cut her off from this place and these people, ripping her away from what she loved, bitterness would find its way into their relationship.

Eventually they would all have to leave San Francisco, including those humans made part of their world because of ties to Cathal and Etaín. Glamour only went so far when it came to hiding the lack of aging. Nor was it easy for those who no longer measured their lives in decades to remain in a place where the people they had interacted with for years grew old and died while they didn’t.

The door to the shop opened and a well-dressed man of Hispanic descent rushed toward Etaín and was immediately blocked by Myk.

The human laughed, leaning to the side to see Etaín. “Bodyguards or cops in plainclothes?”

“Bodyguards.” She gave a small sigh. “Francisco is a client, Myk. Please let him pass.”

Eamon didn’t counter the command.

Francisco hugged her as all of them had. “I caught a glimpse of you from my office. Do you have time to add the name to my tat?”

“Kiss of death to the relationship,” Jamaal called from the work area. “Unless you’re putting family on your skin.”

Derrick sniffed. “Ridiculous superstition. Don’t listen to him.”

Jamaal shook his head. “You so sure about that? Last I counted, Bryce has covered three names since he hired you, and I’m betting any day now you’re going to be begging either me or Etaín to hide that last loser’s name.”

“Those where bad choices. I’m a different man now.”

“Uh-huh.” Jamaal leaned forward to concentrate on detail work along his client’s shoulder.

“You have time?” Francisco asked Etaín again.

“Okay if Derrick does it instead? His lettering is better than mine.”

“Sure. That’s okay if he’s willing.”

Derrick motioned toward one of the workstations. “Come on back. Let me see what you’ve already got on you and hear what you’re thinking.”

Pleasure flooded Eamon at the choice she’d made. He pulled her into his arms, the sense of completeness he felt when he held her growing stronger.

He claimed her lips in tenderness, his tongue a slow glide and thrust, a sensuous taking reminiscent of lovemaking rather than the carnal pounding of heated sex. When she moaned softly, pelvis grinding to his, their surroundings forgotten, he left her mouth in favor of her ear, marking his effect on her by the race of her heartbeat against his chest.

Her hands burned through his shirt where they played at the base of his spine, her touch and nearness enough to keep him hard and anxious to be inside her.

“You restrained yourself,” she murmured, acknowledging his lack of interference with the flick of her tongue against his earlobe.

She might as well have captured his cock in a welcoming fist.

“I’m restraining myself now.”

She laughed, the heat of it across his ear sending a shiver of pleasure through him.

“When you’re like this, instead of doing your lord-of-all-you-see thing, it makes me believe this will work.”

He cupped her cheek, tenderness welling up inside him. “Tattoo me as you have Cathal.”

Without needing to glance at them, he sensed Liam and Myk’s immediate resistance to the idea, though it was Liam who voiced it. “Is that wise, Lord?”

Was it wise? The question could only be answered honestly in retrospect.

Taking her ink was a calculated risk, but he believed he could keep himself safe. She didn’t yet know how to push magic into the ink, to forge the bond as he’d done in her stead when it came to Cathal. And his protections had held. There’d been no sense of threat since that first violent plundering and pull of magic.

“Tattoo me as you have Cathal,” he repeated, ducking his head to nuzzle along the length of her neck.

The design was there in Etaín’s mind, identical to Cathal’s except in color and location, and she shivered, unsure whether the emotion surging through her was anticipation or trepidation. “Are you asking me? Or calling in the promise Cathal made on my behalf?”

His lips returned to hers in a slow trail of kisses that had her head tilting backward in order to give him greater, deeper access. “I’m asking.” Though the thrust of his tongue and hard press of his lips were hungry and demanding, pouring liquid fire into her belly to sink lower and become the slick evidence of desire.

“Somebody open the damn door, it’s getting to be a sauna in here,” Jamaal yelled, making Etaín laugh and end the kiss.

“Oh no, no, no,” Derrick said, and she could see him fanning himself at his workstation. “I for one am enjoying myself.”

Bryce made a motion toward the privacy screens. “The shop isn’t licensed for porn. You want to take this out of sight?”

Jamaal snorted. “Better crank up the music so we won’t be hearing what’s going on back there. Imagining it is bad enough.”

“Shall I send Myk for your kit? Or do you have what you need here?” Eamon asked, smiling at the banter around them.

“You’re serious about doing this?”

“Absolutely. I thought you might prefer to do it here, but if I’m mistaken…”

She wavered, torn, fear nearly getting the upper hand. Her surety about the design and it’s placement, the same confidence she’d always felt and what had turned out to be foresight when it came to Cathal, slammed hard and fast against the possibility she was somehow being influenced by the Dragon.

This is what it feels like to be mind-fucked. And with sudden insight she understood it would never end if she didn’t take control. Didn’t decide and move on, learning through trial and error and consequence rather than being paralyzed by doubt.

Doubt had never been a problem for her before. She wouldn’t let it continue to plague her.

“No. Send Myk for my kit.”

She guided Eamon to the area set aside for tattoos and piercings done on breasts, buttocks, and genitals, or that risked flashing those body parts.

Seconds later Adele blasted through the room speakers a couple of decibels louder than usual, Jamaal’s laughter saying he was making good on his comment to block out sounds coming from behind the screen.

She laughed too. It worked for her. It meant they could talk more freely.

With a grim expression, Liam took up a position leaning against the screen while she had Eamon sit on the massage table rather than the client chair. “I didn’t hear you offer him any assurances,” she said, reintroducing the assassin’s unanswered question.

Eamon shrugged, producing a ripple of muscles beneath his very expensive shirt. “I am lord here.”

“Careful,” she said, touching a fingertip to his lips, a flutter going through her belly when he pulled the finger into his mouth for a quick suck as his gaze dipped to nipples that ached to have him do the same to them.

Two could play this game.

Her hands went to the front of his shirt. “This needs to come off.”

He made no move to help or hurry her as button by button she exposed smooth golden skin. He trembled when she circled pebbled nipples, inhaled sharply when she covered them with the eyes at the center of her palms though she didn’t need them to see what they had between them. Like to like, the call of it was an ever-increasing compulsion she had no will to resist.

He spread his legs and she stepped into the space he’d created. Her hands moved upward, sliding across his collarbones and then down to his biceps, closing around them to the extent she could. “This is where the tattoos will go, like something a Viking would wear, except instead of fashioned gold it’ll be my ink.”

“A fitting analogy. Truth has been distorted over the centuries and with the merging of one culture into another. The Vikings once called those of us they glimpsed gods. The Aesir. Though the name was a broad label encompassing a number of the supernatural.”

Aesirs. She didn’t want to delve into the reasons he’d named his place what he did. But she couldn’t resist saying, “A god, huh? Don’t expect me to worship you except like this.”

She kissed him, teasing him with lips and tongue and hands that had already learned how and where he liked to be touched, his desire rebounding, ratcheting up her own until they were both breathing hard, the craving for more heightened by the impossibility of having it, given the Elven guard.

Eamon’s smile was pure masculine satisfaction. “As humans are fond of saying, this works for me.”

It took a moment for the haze of need to clear. She laughed. “You mean as worship goes?”

“Yes.” His eyes darkened as he fisted her hair with enough strength to be both threat and turn-on. “Though I also enjoy having you on your knees in front of me.”

Taking his cock in her mouth. Pleasuring him.

Her cunt clenched at the imagery. At the remembered feel and scent and taste of him. With the knowledge that he gave as good as he got, and then some. Always.

We could forget about the tattoo and go home. But the words remained unspoken, held back by premonition or instinct or something other than the Dragon, and then Myk arrived with her kit, locking the future in place.

She shook the weird thoughts and sensations off, the routine of setting up tools and ink reducing the burn of desire until it simmered in the background even when her hand circled Eamon’s arm. She held it steady as she used an antiseptic wipe then picked up the disposable razor and stroked it over skin that looked as though it didn’t need it.

“Last chance,” she said after a second hit with the wipe and the application of a small amount of Vaseline.

“Proceed, Etaín.”

The corners of her mouth kicked up at the lordly answer. “Go ahead and lie down then.”

If she were using her machine, she’d put him in a different position, but the handheld needles required intense concentration and strength of will, along with physical stamina and control to push them through skin and put the ink in at a consistent depth.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as a final step. The design was there in her mind with crystal clarity, the muscle memory of it already in her hand from putting it on Cathal.

A second deep breath and she picked up a thin needle, dipping it in black ink. “If you need a break from the pain, tell me.”

Lord Eamon didn’t deem the instruction worthy of comment, and she felt his utter confidence as she placed her left hand on his right biceps and stretched the skin.

Outline first. The change in position required by it allowing him relief from the sting of the needle even if he didn’t ask for it.

Then shading, though unlike the all-black art she’d put on Cathal, she threaded red and blue and gold into Eamon’s tattoo, the same shades found in the vines and band she wore. The electric hum of connection and awareness snapped into place, stronger than what she’d experienced hugging Jamaal and Derrick, and not yet what she had with Cathal.

Eamon took her hands as she rested after finishing the work on his right biceps. He brushed his thumbs over the eyes on her palms, and immediately Liam was there, stepping into her consciousness like the dark promise of death. “You tempt fate, Lord.”

Because of the magic. Because of the Dragon he believed was only an avatar.

“Come with me to Aesirs,” Eamon said, thighs widening as he pulled her forward until she stood close enough to feel the heat always radiating from him. “Meet more of those who will call you Lady. Spend time in the world that’s your birthright.”

She couldn’t deny him. “I’ll need to detour to my apartment for a change of clothes.”

“The dress of the other night wasn’t the only clothing I purchased with you in mind. An entire wardrobe of outfits suitable for Aesirs is in our suite there.”

She balked at hearing suitable, the word still capable, after all these years, of scraping off the thin scab covering old wounds of rejection. She couldn’t prevent the instant stiffening, but she did manage to keep from pulling away and taking the first steps toward escape.

He touched his forehead to hers. “If you like none of the outfits then wear what you have on. I bought them for your pleasure and my own, though personally I prefer you with nothing on at all.”

“I bet you do,” she said on a laugh, kissing him before stepping back, her gaze going to the broad, bold band announcing her claim on him. “I’ll go with you to Aesirs after we’re done here.”