"Then by midday," he said with a calm, predatory finality, "we will find needles."
She stared at him, realizing he wasn't joking. The idea of her art etched into his skin, a permanent claim, sent a shiver of heat through her. "You're serious."
"Completely." He smiled—a slow, pleased curve of his lips.
"What would you even want?" she asked, setting her brush down and turning her body to his. "What could I possibly draw that would be worthy of you?"
"Something that is mine," he replied, his hand moving to rest on the back of her neck. "Something that reminds me I survived the dark… and chose the light anyway."
Her expression softened, her fingers trailing down his bicep, imagining the lines she could create there. "You speak like it wouldn't hurt. Needles aren't like brushes."
"It will probably hurt like hell," he admitted with a grin. "But I trust your hand more than I trust my own heart."
