Falling In Love With You

Chapter 15

Sera

The first touch of the needle wasn't a prick; it was a white-hot line of lightning that tore through my side. I made a sound—a choked, ugly gasp—as my back arched off the table. My entire body went rigid, every muscle screaming to get away from the source of the agony.

"Stay. Still."

Kayla’s voice was a command, steady and low, vibrating through the air and settling in my bones. I felt her hand on my hip, her grip firm and unyielding, pinning me to the table. It was the only thing keeping me from bolting.

"I... I can't," I wheezed, my eyes squeezed shut. "It’s too much."

"Look at me, Sera."

I opened my eyes. She was leaning over me, the black mask covering her nose and mouth, but her eyes—those burning amber eyes—were locked onto mine. There was no pity in them. No gentleness. Just a raw, focused intensity that demanded I show up for this.

"You said you wanted to feel something that belongs to you," she murmured, the machine still snarling in her other hand.

"This is it. This is the price. Breathe. Don't fight the needle. Melt into it."

I took a shuddering breath, my fingers digging into the vinyl of the table. I looked at her, and for a moment, the pain shifted. It didn't go away, but it became a background noise to the electricity of her presence.

She leaned back in, and the needle bit again.

I watched her. I watched the way her brow furrowed in concentration. I watched the way the tattoos on her arms moved like ink under water as she worked. She was so precise, so careful with every stroke. She was taking my messy, broken drawing and turning it into something permanent.

Minutes turned into an eternity. Every time the machine stopped so she could wipe the excess ink away, I felt a strange, cold void, only for the heat to return the second the needle touched down again.

I was sweating. My hair was matted to my forehead, and my expensive silk blouse was ruined, stained with green soap and blood and black ink. I had never felt less like a "McBurry."

And I had never felt more alive.

"Almost there," she whispered. Her hand shifted slightly, her thumb brushing against the skin of my waist that wasn't being tattooed. It was a tiny, perhaps accidental contact, but it sent a different kind of jolt through me—one that had nothing to do with pain.

I looked at the ceiling, the industrial lights blurring as tears of pure sensory overload pricked my eyes. I was exposed. I was bleeding in a basement in the middle of a storm with a woman who despised everything I stood for.

"Done," she finally said.

The machine went silent. The sudden quiet was deafening. Kayla straightened up, her joints popping, and for a second, she just stood there, looking down at the work on my ribs. Her chest was heaving slightly, as if she’d been the one enduring the needle.

"Let's see the damage," I whispered, my voice cracked and weak.

She handed me a mirror, her expression unreadable. I looked.

The bird was there. But it wasn't my crude sketch. It was a masterpiece of shadow and light. The wings looked like they were actually straining against the bars, and the bars themselves looked like they were splintering. It was beautiful. It was haunting. It was me.

"You... you made it better," I said, looking up at her.

Kayla pulled off her gloves, the snap of the latex loud in the room. She didn't look at the tattoo anymore. She looked at me—really looked at me—seeing the sweat, the mess, and the raw vulnerability I’d tried so hard to hide.

"I just drew what I saw, Sera," she said, her voice dropping to that dangerous, soft rasp.

She reached out, her bare hand hovering near my face for a heartbeat—long enough for me to hold my breath—before she simply tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear.

"Now get up. You need to wrap that, and you need to get home before you go into shock."