Chapter 212

Ella

“Your turn.”

The afterglow of Logan’s successful tattoo, which he thankfully loved, was short-lived once those words left his lips. I had been grinning from ear to ear as I watched him admire his new tattoo; it was the simple outline of a wolf’s head, simple and understated yet unique and, if I may say so myself, utterly handsome on him.

But that grin faded almost instantly as Logan turned to me and spoke, a smirk spreading across his lips.

“Well, Ell?” he asked. “Did you hear me?”

A slight chuckle escaped my lips, but as my gaze darted back and forth between Logan and Rickie, I realized that neither of them was joking. I swallowed—I had never even once considered getting a tattoo before.

The idea was thrilling but also daunting. I knew that my parents would have a fit if they ever found out what I had done—or at least, my father certainly would. But something about tonight, about being here with Logan and seeing him embrace his wild side with that wolf tattoo, stirred something inside of me that I didn’t know existed.

“Oh, no, I don’t want a tattoo,” I heard myself say, but even as the words left my lips, they felt untrue.

Rickie, ever the perceptive one, leaned against the counter, her own heavily tattooed arms crossed. “I saw you eyeing those designs, Ella,” she teased. “It’s pretty clear you want one.”

My face flushed red, because it was true; I had been eyeballing some of the designs in the book that Rickie had handed me when we were figuring out Logan’s tattoo, and admittedly, it had momentarily crossed my mind that I wouldn’t entirely hate some of them on me.

But I couldn’t. “I-I really can’t,” I insisted. “My parents would kill me. Or my dad would, at least.”

Rickie chuckled. “Your parents?” she asked. “Ella, how old are you?”

My blush deepened. “Twenty-five, but—”

“So you’re twenty-five years old,” Rickie teased, “but you’re worried about your parents finding out if you were to get a little tattoo of something that you like? What are you, a goodie-two-shoes?”

I hated to admit it, even to myself, but Rickie was right. Maybe I was too old to be worrying about something like this. I glanced at Logan, seeking some sort of guidance or perhaps a reason to back out. But he only offered a supportive shrug. “It’s your decision, Ella.”

My mind raced. I thought about my parents, about the expectations and the image they had of me. Good grades, good behavior, always playing it safe. But here, in this moment, surrounded by the hum of the tattoo gun and the scent of ink and disinfectant, I felt a different pull. A desire to step out of the shadows of expectations and do something for myself, just this once.

“Okay. I’ll do it,” I said, surprising even myself with the decisiveness in my voice.

Rickie’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I’m talking about! What are you thinking of getting?”

“A rose,” I said quickly, the image suddenly clear as day in my mind. “Small… with thorns, on my hip.”

Rickie and Logan both quirked an eyebrow in unison. “That came to you awfully quick,” Rickie said with a chuckle as she turned to get a sterile needle. “You sure you’ve never thought about getting a tattoo before?”

I blushed, but said nothing. Logan stood from the table and gestured for me to lay down, and as I walked past him, our shoulders brushed. Logan’s hand shot out and he grabbed my shoulder, his gaze intense. “You sure about this?” he asked, his voice low. “You know you don’t have to.”

I nodded, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over me. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

Logan nodded and released his grip on me. I took a deep breath and laid down on the table, and then, as per Rickie’s instructions, I unzipped my jeans and shimmied them down just enough to expose my hip bone. I could see Logan in the corner, his gaze landing momentarily on the soft flesh of my waist before he quickly looked away. He was trying not to stare, but frankly, I didn’t care if he did.

A moment later, the needle’s buzz started. I braced myself for the pain, but it was more of a sharp scratch, a sensation that was intense but bearable, and somehow oddly soothing.

“How are you holding up?” Rickie asked, her voice steady and focused.

“Better than I thought,” I replied with a slight laugh. “Is it supposed to feel… kinda good?”

Rickie chuckled. “Everyone is always shocked their first time,” she said as she worked. “It’s like scratching an itch.”

Logan remained silent, watching the process with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. There was something about his gaze, something that made me feel seen, truly seen, for the first time.

Rickie worked with a concentration that was almost hypnotic. The pain from the needle ebbed and flowed, a sensation that was both intimate and liberating. The rose took shape under her skilled hands, and soon, I could see the outlines of the petals and the thorns, just as I had envisioned. But I tried not to look too much; I wanted it to be a surprise.

Not long later, Rickie pulled back and wiped the spot with a paper towel. “All done,” she said with a warm smile. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Oh, and you can breathe now, Ella.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.

Handing me a mirror, Rickie watched as I took in the sight of my new tattoo. The rose was beautiful, delicate but also fierce with its sharp thorns. It was a part of me now, a hidden symbol of strength and vulnerability.

“I… I love it,” I whispered, my eyes widening. “It’s perfect. Logan, do you want to see?”

Logan nodded and walked over to me. His reaction was immediate and intense. His eyes widened, and a deep blush colored his cheeks. He quickly looked away, his usual composure slipping for a moment. “It’s nice,” he murmured. “Good job, Rickie.”

Rickie chuckled as she watched the exchange. “Men,” she teased. “Is that really all you have to say? That it’s ‘nice’?”

“Fine,” Logan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s beautiful. Ella, it really suits you perfectly.”

Logan’s words made me blush harder than ever. There was a brief silence in the room as Rickie then carefully placed a bit of gauze and tape over the fresh tattoo, and I tried to avoid Logan’s gaze as I sat up and readjusted my pants.

“Thank you, Rickie,” I said. “It really is perfect.”

“I’ll see you again soon,” Rickie replied as she peeled off her plastic gloves. “Tattoos are addicting, if you can’t tell just from looking at me.”

Logan wound up paying for both of us, even though I tried paying for myself. As we stepped out into the cool night air, a chilly wind blew across my skin. I could feel it hitting the raw skin around my tattoo, and it was oddly refreshing.

As we walked back to the car, I stole a momentary glance at Logan. His new tattoo was hidden now, but I could still picture it beneath his white t-shirt. And I hated to admit it, but I could already picture it beneath my fingers, the sensation of the small raised bumps as I touched his skin. The very thought of it made me blush, and I quickly looked away.

“Hop in,” Logan said, opening the passenger side door for me. My blush deepened as I brushed past him, and for a moment, I could feel his warm breath against my neck, a stark contrast to the chill of the night.

I allowed myself to pause there, and it was as if the air pulsed between us. Logan’s clear blue eyes seemed to shine in the dim amber glow of the streetlamps, and for the briefest of moments, I swore I could see them flicker down to my lips.

“Get in,” Logan whispered then, breaking the intimate moment. “It’s time to go home.”