Salviana said nothing.
She dipped the needle, tested the ink, steadying herself. Whatever Anne-Marie was—whoever she had been—it belonged to Alaric's past. If he wanted to share it, he would. If not, she would not tear it from him.
She moved closer.
"Where?" she asked softly.
He shifted, exposing his shoulder, muscle flexing beneath her gaze. "Here."
Her breath caught—but she nodded, professional, controlled. She cleaned the skin, the scent of ink rising faintly between them. The room seemed to grow smaller. Quieter.
"Mmm," she hummed absentmindedly as she prepared, more to steady herself than anything else.
Alaric's eyes fluttered closed.
The needle touched skin.
Not painful—just sharp enough to be real.
He hissed softly, then laughed under his breath. "You're gentler than I expected."
She smiled despite herself. "I don't enjoy hurting what's mine."
His eyes opened at that.
Mine. The word settled deep.
She worked slowly.
