Chapter 18
759 Words
Sera
The fourth day was the worst.
The initial sharp burn had settled into a deep, maddening itch that felt like a thousand tiny needles were dancing under my skin. Every time the silk of my blouse brushed against my ribs, I had to physically clench my teeth to keep from scratching.
I was sitting in a creative strategy meeting, trying to focus on the color palette for a new fragrance launch, but all I could think about was the healing skin hidden beneath my tailored cream-colored suit.
"The scent is supposed to evoke 'untamed elegance,'" the lead designer was saying, gesturing to a mood board filled with images of stormy seas and wild horses. "Something that feels dangerous but still belongs in a penthouse."
I looked at the images and felt a hollow laugh bubbling in my throat. They had no idea what "dangerous" actually looked like. They thought it was a marketing buzzword. They hadn't seen a woman with ink-stained knuckles and a gaze like a predator watching the light die in the sky.
As soon as the meeting adjourned, I slipped into my private office and locked the door. I peeled back my shirt just enough to look in the mirror. The tattoo was starting to peel—fine, dark flakes of skin coming away like the soot of a spent fire.
Don't pick at it. Her voice was an itch of its own. I reached for the moisturizer she’d recommended, but my hand stopped. I didn't want to just fix it. I wanted a reason.
I looked at my reflection. My hair was perfectly coiffed, my pearls were in place, but my eyes... they looked restless. I was a McBurry, and McBurrys didn't seek out confrontations with street artists. But I was also the woman with the bird on her ribs, and that woman was currently losing her mind.
I grabbed my bag. I didn't tell Mark I was leaving. I didn't call Arthur.
The cab ride to the Lower East Side felt shorter this time, as if the path was being carved into the city’s map just for me. When I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the humidity had broken, leaving the air crisp and biting. I walked down the stairs, the bell chiming with a familiar, sharp ring.
The shop was quiet. No music, no hum of a machine. Just the scratch of a pencil on paper.
Kayla was hunched over her desk, her back to me. She was wearing a gray hoodie today, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the heavy ink on her forearms. She didn't turn around immediately, but I saw her shoulders tense. She knew it was me.
"You're early for a touch-up, Princess," she said, her voice a low, dry rasp. "And I'm pretty sure I told you not to come back until the peeling stopped."
"It's itching," I said, my voice sounding more demanding than I intended. I walked closer, my heels clicking on the concrete. "It feels like it's on fire, and I... I think something is wrong."
It was a lie. I knew it was healing perfectly. But I needed her to look at it. I needed to see if that spark of recognition from the bar was still there, or if I’d imagined the way she’d tucked my hair behind my ear.
Kayla finally turned around. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her amber eyes, and her hair was a mess of dark tangles. She looked at me, then down at my side, then back at my face.
"It's supposed to itch," she said, her expression flat. "It's skin healing over a wound. Did you think it was going to be a spa treatment?"
"I'm not an i***t, Kayla," I snapped, stepping into her space. "I just... I wanted to make sure I wasn't ruining it.
Kayla stood up slowly, her height suddenly very apparent as she looked down at me. The air between us felt thick, like it was charged with the same electricity that had filled the shop during the session.
"You're a terrible liar, Sera," she murmured, her voice dropping to that dangerous, soft register.
She didn't move to check the tattoo. She just stood there, watching the way my breath hitched.
"So," she said, leaning back against her desk and crossing her arms. "You didn't come here because of an itch. Why are you really here?"
- Writer
