Redemption Hills: The Complete Collection

2. Charleigh

TWO

CHARLEIGH

The sound of the lock clicking into place rang through the tension-slicked air, and my chest squeezed in a way that made it difficult to inhale.

I realized then that it was his aura I was breathing.

That fiery volatility that scraped up my lungs and left my throat raw as I struggled to draw in air as he stood staring at me.

The man was cut like a blade and carved like a shadow.

Eyes the color of pitch with hair to match. His face was slashed in harsh, beautiful angles. His skin was pale, and his lips were ridiculously full and pink.

“So we don’t have to worry about getting interrupted,” he explained as he let his hand drop from the lock.

I thought he maybe said it to give me some sort of comfort, but it still rolled through me like a threat.

My mouth went dry, and my heart battered violently at my ribs.

Clearly, I should run. Rip the door back open and get the hell out of here because there was something about this guy that left me unsettled.

I held back the scoff at myself.

Unsettled?

My knees were knocking, and I wasn’t quite sure why.

Maybe simply because the guy was terrifying. Terrifying in a completely hypnotic, spellbinding way.

He swept his tongue over his bottom lip as he took me in, his head cocked to the side as if I were prey and he was gauging the best way to attack. “How long have you been considering this? Don’t like being a part of the impulsive, especially when it’s your first.”

I could almost taste the danger that oozed from his being, though I didn’t miss the care in his rough voice, the man a stark contradiction.

“I’ve been trying to get the courage to come in here for the last four months.” The confession shook, but I figured there was no reason to try to hide the truth from him.

Those inky eyes toiled like a dark sea, softening as if he understood.

“All right then. Give me a minute to clean up and reset my station. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Okay,” I managed, and he gave me a jut of his chin as he turned and strode back across the lobby.

I couldn’t look away as I watched him go.

He was tall and his body was thick. Muscles bulged from beneath his black tee and fitted black jeans. Every inch of skin I could see was covered in tattoos, so many that I couldn’t make out the designs, except for the row of five tiny stars that followed the right side of his hairline at his temple.

He ducked into the little room where he’d been when I first came in. There were a row of them on that side of the tattoo shop, each with their lights out except for his that was closest to the window.

He started rustling around within it.

Once he was out of sight and it was possible to look somewhere other than at him, my attention swept the area. The studio was both industrial and posh. A plush black couch and two chairs sat beneath the window that overlooked the trendy main street of Moonlit Ridge, situated around a metal coffee table stacked with what I assumed were portfolios. The walls were covered in art, and in the middle of the lobby was a horseshoe display case.

I eased forward, peering down through the glass at the hundreds of different styles of body jewelry. I had to bite down on my bottom lip to keep the blush from spreading when I realized what some of them were for.

My nerves rattled, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so out of place.

But I didn’t have a place , and I was trying to find one, and being here was a little piece of that.

I jolted when I felt the overpowering intensity suddenly whip through the room again, and my gaze jumped to the doorway of his station. The man leaned there, blithe, though there wasn’t a single thing about him that seemed casual.

“You ready for me, or are you having second thoughts about me marking up that pretty skin?” It scraped the atmosphere like an omen, like maybe when he tattooed me, he was going to leave a piece of himself written in my skin, too.

“No second thoughts,” I forced out, inhaling as I straightened and moved the rest of the way across the lobby until I was standing in front of him, though I froze two feet away.

His head cocked. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Arrogance twitched across his too-full lips. “Brave girl.”

If he only knew that I was barely standing.

I shifted a bit to the side so I could squeeze by him, though my hand brushed his as I passed.

An electric current ran up my arm, and I nearly tripped. His presence slammed me like a shockwave. I steadied myself with a silent reminder of why I was there. Of what this moment represented.

“Have a seat.” He gestured at a big leather and metal chair that looked like it could be contorted into a bunch of different positions.

I followed his instructions, awkward as I uneasily settled on the edge of the seat.

He pulled up a rolling stool close to me and sat on it.

It left him eye-level with me, and his massive shoulders drew up as he rubbed his hands together like he needed to press the energy out of them. His voice was low when he muttered, “Name’s River.”

“I’m Charleigh.”

His nod was slow. “Want you to be comfortable.”

I choked a small laugh, and I tried to put some lightness into my voice. “Says the purveyor of pain.”

He blanched in surprise before the smallest grin tweaked the edge of his mouth. “Don’t you know there’s beauty in pain?”

“I think I’ve heard it a time or two.”

He looked like the poster child of it.

He cleared his throat. “So, where’s this tattoo going to go?”

I gulped around the thickness in my throat, and I twisted out of my jean jacket, trying not to meet his gaze as I did, then I lifted my left arm and ran my right index finger along the lower inner portion of my bicep. “Right here.”

His nod was appraising. “And I take it you have something in mind?”

“Just a phrase,” I whispered.

A dark brow arched, and the stars on his hairline danced. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

“I have a drawing of what I want.” My hand was trembling as I unzipped my purse and pulled out the folded piece of paper where I’d written it, and I was sure he could feel my insides quaking when he took it from my hold.

He glanced at me once as he unfolded it, and I swore my throat closed off as I imagined what he would think reading the phrase. I felt raw and brittle, like I’d peeled myself back to expose what was inside.

It was something I never did.

But I knew coming here would make me vulnerable.

I thought I saw his muscles flinch as he studied the words, or maybe he just thought me cliché and dramatic.

In grief we must live.

But they were my words. My truth. And he might be the one marking them on me, but I was the one who had to carry them. The one who had to believe them.

In an hour, I’d walk out of here and I’d likely never see him again, so it didn’t matter what he thought.

He stared down at the paper for the longest time before he reached up and scratched his cheek with a tattooed finger. “You know what font you want?”

“If you can leave it hand drawn like that?” I wanted it in my handwriting.

His eyes flashed to mine, and it was then I noticed there were sooty grays mixed with the black, like the sky during a monsoon. A shiver ripped down my spine.

“Yeah, we can definitely do that. Give me a minute to get a stencil printed up. Fill out this information while I do.”

He spun around and grabbed a tablet from the counter behind him and passed it to me so I could fill out my information and waiver, while he turned the stool and wheeled himself over on the heels of his boots to a lower section used as a desk.

His back was to me as he worked, a baited silence all around us.

After a few minutes, a printer whirred to life, and then he was back, spinning around and using his heels to glide himself close as he held out the stencil.

I could hardly breathe.

“Lay back and lift your arm above your head.”

Shaking, I did, and he leaned in close, setting the stencil against my skin in the exact spot where I’d indicated. He glanced at me with those stormy eyes. “Good?”

I gave him a jerky nod. “Yeah.”

He carefully pressed it against my arm, meticulous as he transferred the design before he pulled on another pair of black gloves. He already had a tray set with inks, and he moved some things around, squeezing the darkest black into a tiny pot, then he flicked on a machine.

He leaned in close, his mouth nearly brushing the lobe of my ear, his potency swallowing me whole.

Coarse words muttered there, hitting me in a way they shouldn’t. “Last chance, gorgeous, before I mark up this bare, perfect skin.”

But I was already scarred. He just couldn’t see it.

So, I murmured, “Do it.”

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