Heart In A Cage

21

She breathes out, focus training on those two large flowers. "It's not for you. I'm just...drawn to the detailing. Something about it is―it's just," a hand on my chest, hesitation to speak next words. "Captivation."

An inability to quell her attraction to the tattoos.

"Captivation." I taste the word on my tongue. "Of course. It's all it needs to be."

A few more tense moments of my skin being inspected and stilling in utter silence, waiting for any contradiction to made, then we've taken to being downstairs on opposite sides of a table.

The dining room, with similar colouration to the kitchen, is a useless space resplendent in garish furnishings and decor to appeal to the eye rather than to serve us during meals. White-upholstered seats with golden frames―same designing as the livings room's couch―gather around a table of a glass surface and upon it, an amber vase with drooping roses matching the chandelier that hangs above.

I try to furtively glance at Bella as Ethan, the disreputable tattooist clad in a plain black attire, studies the stencils he's transferred on to her shoulders and splayed hand rested on the table, tattoo gun ready. Drawn on his light brown skin, a snake coils around his biceps, its tongue peeking through his sleeves where the head hides. Realistically textured scales are peeling off the 3D body of the reptile, given the illusion of falling down his forearm and elbow.

"Stop staring," he says plainly. I return a look to Bella, and she shares the same perplexity as me while the tattooist alternates between staring at her hand and raising his tattoo gun like he's about to begin.

"At what?" It appeared to me that his attention had been fixed on his set task.

"My arm, her hand, her chest."

"You're looking at my tits?" Bella straightens herself, head tilting and eyes widening in a mockery of bafflement. She blinks once, twice. Frowning and drawing out her little act of indirectly questioning me about my crude glances with an innocent, pure stare. Such sweet-looking doe eyes over the face of my naughty lady.

"I'm just hungry," I tell them.

"You know what," Ethan says, looking up at me from his equipment, "the stencil is complete and on her skin, meaning you're no longer required here as a blueprint for the copy."

"And?"

"Your presence is unneeded. Please leave."

"Yes," Bella adds, "I am feeling quite uncomfortable."

"Are you―" I straighten my back and clench my fists. Deprivation makes men like me hungry. Am I meant to just sit here and not offer myself at least the mere sight of sustenance? If I can't get it, then my only choice is to observe.

"An environment is altered upon the client's requests," Ethan informs me. "So I advise again, please leave." They're both looking at me. A tiny twitch of Bella's lips is the only break to her troubled exterior, a hint of amusement.

I level my glare right at those still-pure eyes―gorgeous, bullshitting eyes―as I speak. "This is your first time. I'm not leaving."

"Gosh, you―"

"Shut up, Ethan."

That mask formed by her eagerness to irk me falters. She stares at the tattoo gun, the tip of it, and from the momentary scrunch of her eyebrows, I know she's letting the idea of having that sharp point pierce her finally sink in.

"Let him stay," she says quietly. A relief I don't let show.

"My baby doesn't have enough bravado to handle this herself."

Her hard eyes land on me. I give her an air kiss and reach for her arm—only to have our feisty tattooist block my attempt with a gloved hand.

"Don't touch. The area must remain sterilized." He retracts and readjusts the hold on his tattoo gun, and I try not to bite back as I settle in my seat and watch this unfold before me. Just after he gives Bella a nod to communicate that his work is about to commence, she spares me a worried glance and loosens a strained breath.

The sharp point meets her first finger. Then unwelcome thoughts barge in.

You did it.

She's becoming yours.

She's winning your game.

Unnecessary triumph flowing in from the vision before me. Of her pinching her eyebrows together, stifling a flinch with the movement of the needle, looking up at me worriedly. Taking my mark.

Undergoing the process for the first two hours. After an entire hand is a flourishing sprawl of life crawling up to her wrists.

"You're doing good, baby," I whisper. "One hand is already down."

On Ethan's command, she twists her body and gives access to her opposite hand. The same cycle goes on―her eyeing the needle like it's a predator and she's the prey, turning her pretty, troubled stare to me a moment after it hits, enduring the pricks and seeking reassurance from me which, of course, I give her instantly.

Another hour; another hand.

"Isabella, have I reminded you that you're a pretty woman today?"

"Andreas," Ethan breathes, setting down his gun. "Silence or leave; your choice."

Through difficulty that impedes with my current objective to remain quiet, I manage to decide on the former of my supposed choice and keep my mouth shut. Though uncomfortably shifting when Bella is instructed to repose her head back on the top of her chair. Shoulders bare, with a large rose sketched on each, tattoo gun reaching in from the standing tattooist working over her with complete concentration.

And as it hits―right after she gasps, winces, then surmounts the pain―her eyes reposition to me, to where my arms are crossed atop the glass table, body leaned forward, tightened fists hidden beneath the hold I have on myself.

Her lips manage to quirk up in the corner even when her skin is punctured with Ethan's smooth, curving motions and gun.

She busies herself with the pain. But I gaze at her eyes, at the beautiful ponds of emerald flecked with grey moonlight, and turn away only when they look back at me.