Emma’s POV
The tattoo parlor was located at the edge of pack territory, a low stone building half-hidden by pines. Inside it smells like antiseptic and leather. The artist is a quiet older she-wolf named Sage who has inked every Alpha for three generations. She bows her head when we walk in.
Richard never lets go of my hand.
We decided on the designs last night, whispering in bed between slow, sleepy kisses.
He chose my name in runic script, black and elegant, curling over the left side of his chest, right above his heart.
I chose a tiny Nightforge crest; a snarling wolf, no bigger than a coin, on the inside of my left wrist where my pulse beats. Inside the wolf’s open mouth, hidden unless you looked closely, he had Sage add our initials in the smallest script possible: R & E.
S
