The Tattoo Artist

It was at that very moment that I seemed to fall under a spell, constantly finding excuses to return to Henry’s studio.

But I lacked courage, and with my strict upbringing, I had never dared to cross the line.

Until this time.

I subconsciously reached out and touched my lower back, where a faint itch and sting lingered.

The last time the tattoo had scabbed over, I had missed him too much and couldn’t find an excuse to come, so I had forcibly picked at the scab before it had healed.

This was my third touch-up.

It was also my self-directed and self-performed act of “playing the victim.”

The comments drifted by right on cue:

“I’m dead. This isn’t clumsiness, it’s desire itching under the skin!”

“Claire Rivers ruins her own skin just to see her man once. Yeah, only she would pull that off!”

“Henry is washing his hands three times longer than usual! He’s calming himself down! He’s trying not to look like a creep!”

Was that… really the case?

I watched in the mirror as Henry turned off the faucet, methodically dried his hands, and then pulled on a fresh pair of black gloves.

He turned around, and his gaze fell on the lower back I had been covering the whole time; his eyes darkened instantly.

My heart shrank.

…

Henry finished his preparations, secured his gloves, and pushed over a metal trolley that had somehow already been set up.

The faint sound of the wheels rolling across the floor filled my ears, almost drowning out the beating of my heart.

He said nothing, only reached out to pull over a chair and sat down behind me.

As he drew closer, that sharp, icy scent intensified at once, as if it had enclosed me within an invisible territory.

“Lift your shirt.”

The words were brief, cold, and left no room for refusal.

Blushing, I shakily rolled up the hem of my T-shirt, revealing a stretch of pale skin marred by imperfections.

A very soft click of the tongue sounded behind me.

Immediately after, the cool touch of rubber gloves met my overheated skin, sending fine shivers rippling through me.

Henry’s fingers were long and strong, and even through the gloves, I could feel the rough calluses on his fingertips.

He pressed lightly along the edge of the wound, his movements so gentle they seemed impossible, as though he were touching something fragile and precious.

Yet the words he spoke sounded on the verge of annoyance.

“Miss Rivers, are your hands really that restless?

“It was a perfectly good piece, and you picked it until it looks this scratched up.”

I drew my neck in slightly, not daring to turn around to look at him, and could only stare at the full-length mirror in front of me.

Henry’s reflection lowered his head slightly, his brows sharp and austere.

The mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only a pair of pitch-black eyes exposed.

Those eyes were locked firmly on my waist, shadowed emotions churning beneath their surface.

Suddenly, comments showed up in a fury of excitement:

“Help! Does Henry look like he’s about to eat someone alive?”

“What do you mean? He’s clearly heartbroken! I can see his hand shaking while holding the cotton swab!”

“He’s holding back! He’s desperately suppressing the beastly instinct to pull his woman into his arms and lick her wounds! After all, this beast is the most ferocious of ferocious beasts!”

“Henry’s inner monologue must be: Whoever made my woman hurt deserves to die! Oh—it was my own woman who picked at it? Then never mind. I’ll just kill myself slowly.”

Was it… Really like that?

I watched those eyes in the mirror grow darker still, and my heart began to race.

“It might hurt a little. Bear with it.”

He picked up a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic and gently wiped over the reddened wound.

A sharp sting followed, and I shrank back instinctively, letting out a very soft whimper.

“Mmh…”

Henry’s hand froze abruptly.

In the mirror, I clearly saw his Adam’s apple roll and the instant darkness that flooded his pupils.

The air seemed to thicken at that moment.

He did not resume right away.

After pausing for a few seconds, he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, “So delicate…”

Though the word itself sounded dismissive, there was little real reproach in his tone.

It was something that felt like… desire.