“That’s fucked up,” he snarls. “That’s—”
“I’m still here.” I loop my arms around his neck, trusting him to support my weight. He does, sliding his palms beneath my butt as his heavy sigh rustles my hair.
“Damn,” he says. “Do you really think he’d go through with it?”
I shrug. “He wants to control me. He’ll do whatever he thinks he has to in order to do that.”
He grabs one of my hands from his shoulder, interlacing our fingers. “I’ve got you,” he says softly. “Whether it’s for a day. A week. However long you need me, I’ve got you.”
I’m not brave enough to ask him just what that entails. Me, with a side of Mara, or Bonnie, or whoever else on the side?
Speaking of Mara…
“I can’t keep hiding here forever,” I confess tiredly. “Sooner or later, Mr. Zhang… Mara. They’re going to find out where I am anyway. How do you feel about that?”
“How?” He raises an eyebrow. “A sexy motherfucker with a sexy bunny at his pad? Trust me, I’ll get over the embarrassment.”
But he doesn’t go further than that, refusing to define our relationship between any definitive boundaries. The sad part? It’s not like I even have the right to question that.
So, I take the easy way out by changing the subject. “Do people really get tattoos here?”
I copy Mara by lifting my sweater, but his reaction is the difference between night and day. He strokes his chin, eyeing the bared flesh with renewed interest.
“Here?” He runs his finger down the center of my ribcage, rousing a million goosebumps. “I wasn’t lying when I said it hurts like a bitch.” But he continues tracing the flesh there, mapping out an invisible design.
I lift my sweater entirely, setting it aside.
Any unease I might feel dies the instant I meet his gaze. I have his full attention, and I lean back, exposing his “canvas” to use as he sees fit.
“Show me?”
A wicked smile shapes his mouth as he crosses the room for a pen. When he returns, however, his focus shifts. Even as he palms my breast, I sense that he’s one-hundred-percent intent on the task at hand.
He’s an artist at work.
Observing him hunched over paper is one thing, but this… It’s an experience in itself. He manipulates the pen expertly, and the design comes to life, stunning in every sense of the word.
“Rafe...”
“Don’t speak,” he scolds while applying a bit of shading with meticulous care. “Just stay like this. Just like this.”
The more he works, the easier that command becomes to uphold—I’m too awestruck to do anything but stare.
Even from this angle, the image spreading across my ribcage is beyond anything I could have expected. Not a bunny. Not even a dragon...
“You read what I wrote.”
He’s already admitted as much. It’s still surreal to see it unfolding—that of the moth and her flame.
“I wrote about you,” I whisper, bringing my fingers to his jaw. They’re shaking—he feels hot enough to burn, tensing beneath my touch. “And you got what you wanted, right? A look inside my head.”
He doesn’t bother to say as much out loud. He just draws, utilizing every ounce of flesh at his discretion to bring to life the creature I’d centered my writing around.
A moth, its wings beautifully singed, its detail exquisite. But the feature that makes my throat tighten is something I didn’t mention in my scrawled tale. He drew a large, watchful eye on either side of the insect’s body, staring impassively at the world, guarding their secrets.
I don’t know how much time passes before he finally sets the pen aside and stands, running his hands through his hair. “What do you think—”
I arch toward him, my lips finding his, silencing his startled grunt. Closing my eyes, I relax into the feel of this moment, blinding myself to everything else.
In so many ways, the mock-tattoo feels like the perfect expression of everything. Every obscure emotion and inane concept I’d never be able to put into words.
But it’s also a warning—what awaits me at the end of this, whatever this is.
Broken wings and searing flame.
Chapter Nine
I wake up in Rafe’s bed, but this time I’m not alone. He lies next to me, his hand thrown over my waist, his scent in my lungs. I can’t resist stroking my fingers through his hair, marveling at the sight of him like this, vulnerable for once, his body devoid of tension.
Some of his injuries look slightly better in the pale dawn light, including the one on his chest. I inch closer, tentatively brushing my fingers over the ridge of his pec.
“Damn, bunny.” He opens his eyes, focusing on me. “I thought waking up with your head near my dick was torture enough. You had to go and kick it up a notch.”
His words trigger an impulse only he has ever inspired in me. I rise onto my hands and knees, inching back toward the end of the mattress, aware that I have his full attention.
His confusion quickly morphs into shock as I slip my hand between his legs, urging them to part. He does slowly, creating a large enough space for me to crawl in between them while lacing my fingers around the waistband of his sweatpants.
As I drag them down partway, my chest heaves, revealing the trail of dark curls shielding what lies below. I look up to find him watching me avidly, his upper body propped on his elbows.
“Keep going,” he commands hoarsely.
I do, easing the fabric down as he shifts to assist me. I’m soon faced with a part of him I’ve felt in the most intimate way possible. He’s beautiful—reddening flesh mapped by a crisscrossing of swollen veins. Carefully, I reach out, tracing the path of one.
I’ve barely gone an inch as he grits his teeth, his head rearing back against his shoulders. “Fuck, I need you to—”
He can’t even put it into words. Instead, he lunges for my wrist and directs my hand downward, and it’s as if I can read
