“The tattoo here.” The men were behind her—all but Dylan Kincaid—with fingers fooling at her shoulder, pointing to her back and pressing against the skin as if they were deciding something important. Apparently they were.
The Guild insignia would be tattooed high between her shoulder blades.
“Anyone who sees this knows who you are by the imprint,” Dylan had the courtesy to tell her. “Your master has chosen the mark of the unconditional slave—which means he has great confidence in you as an obedient property.”
A slave.
Property.
Marked.
Tattooed forever.
Categorized.
Classified.
em’s body twitched and stung as the needles etched her pores with ink and her imagination filled with crude pictures of the ugly mark of a guild slave. She could hope for something beautiful, but must p
