The Dark Prince (The Dark Light Series)(61)

I instruct Jared to pull into the first tattoo parlor we see. He looks over at me with hesitation and question in his eyes.

“My treat,” I say opening the passenger side door. Lord knows I can afford it since I started working at Cashmere. Thanks to Dorian, my salary as a store manager rivals that of a CEO of a major corporation.

Dorian. Just thinking about him causes me to gasp in agonized desperation. I can literally feel my heart splintering, sharp little shards poking me in the chest.

“Gabs, I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Jared says, opening the door to the shop for me. Always a perfect gentleman. Even though I am far from a prim and proper lady.

“I do too,” I smile weakly.

Jared and I flip through dozens of giant photo albums in search of body art. He has a few random pieces already and has taken me up on my offer for some new ink. He’s chosen to get a tribute piece to mark Tammy’s miraculous recovery. I honestly have no idea what I want which is no surprise.

“So things are kinda rocky with Dorian?” Jared casually asks about thirty minutes into our search.

“You could say that,” I sigh. “We got into a fight. Well, he said something that upset me and I let him have it. I really went too far. Now I’m afraid he’ll never speak to me again.”

Jared nods, knowing the routine all too well. I don’t let myself just hurt; I get angry. And when I’m angry, I see red, unable to control whatever venom falls from my tongue. Then the damage is done. And rather than trying to mend the broken relationship, I simply punish myself for my misstep, too ashamed to face my mistakes and the real issues festering within me. Unfortunately, the people that I love the most are usually in the line of fire. If it weren’t for my family and the few friends I actually do have refusing to give up on me, I would have pushed them away years ago rather than reveal just how insecure and broken I really am.

“You really do love him,” Jared remarks.

I take a deep breath, feeling a swell of emotion rise in my chest. “Yes. So much.”

“Then it will be ok. He’ll forgive you. You’re worth it, Gabs,” he smiles warmly.

I struggle to return his sentiment then return my attention back to the book. A grouping of eight photos grabs my attention and I nearly drop the album.

“What’s wrong, Gabs?” Jared asks, gauging my startled reaction. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

I shake my head, unable to verbalize my shock and horror. Just then, the tattooed receptionist walks by and I wave her down.

“Excuse me, who received these tattoos?”

The young lady, who looks more like a 50s pin-up girl with her jet black hair and red lips, takes a closer look at the collection I’m pointing to with a shaky finger. “Uh, I think it was a group of some Emo kids a while ago. I remember because they were really odd, kinda freaked me out. Since then, not too many people have asked for them. Is this what you want?”

“No, thank you,” I respond. “Just wondering.”

Once she returns to her station, I pull out my phone and take a picture of the page. I take a long look at each word, fashioned in what I assume is ancient Greek. I touch each one, feeling somewhat drawn to them, connected to the exotic scrawl. Under each photo of foreign characters etched on pale skin is the phonetic translation.



Algea

Apatē

Thanatos

Mīsos

Oinos

Polemos

Órexis

Skotos



“That looks like Aurora’s last name. And isn’t Skotos Dorian’s last name?” Jared asks casually while orchestrating a text message on his cell phone. Luckily, he’s been so wrapped up in his task that he still hasn’t caught on to my anxiety. I nod and quickly flip to the next page to avoid further questions. I couldn’t explain it even if I tried.

Once Jared and I are each in an artist’s chair, I mentally prepare myself for my first tattoo, a lotus blossom accented with feminine filigree extending from the nape of my neck, down my spine and ending at the middle of my back. It’s a beautiful piece and though I’ve opted to do without the vibrant pinks and greens in the photo, it still evokes feelings of serenity and peace, exactly what I so desperately want to channel. Reluctantly, I remove my shirt and unsnap my bra, then carefully shield my breasts as I turn to sit backwards on the reclining chair.

“Pretty big piece for a first timer,” the bearded artist warns before touching my unmarked skin with the buzzing needle of the tattoo gun. “This’ll hurt.”

I turn my head a fraction to look him in his eyes, demonstrating my absolute certainty. “Good.”

Hours later, we emerge from the shop bandaged, sore and starving. We stop at a drive thru to grab some fast food before heading back to Paralia to eat. I am anxious to get home, hopeful that Dorian is finally ready to make amends but am once again disappointed when I discover my empty bedroom. The stinging on my back pales in comparison to the radiating ache in my chest. Being without him is unbearable. The only inkling of hope I have to hold onto is the fact that I’m still alive. He still loves me.