The morning after was a haze of conflicting emotions. Maëlys woke in her own bed, the lingering scent of Eliott – smoke, ink, and something uniquely masculine – still clinging to her skin. The memory of his arms around her, the unexpected comfort in his embrace, felt like a betrayal to her carefully constructed walls. She had let him in. For a few stolen moments, she had allowed herself to be vulnerable, to feel safe. And that terrified her more than any nightmare.
She spent the morning restless, pacing her small living room. Her mind kept replaying the scene on the beach: his calm demeanor, the gentle but firm touch, the way he'd known exactly what she needed without a single word. It was infuriating. And utterly, dangerously compelling.
By midday, the urge became too strong to ignore. It wasn't about seeking him out, she told herself. It was about understanding. Understanding the magnetic pull, the unsettling familiarity. And perhaps, just perhaps, finding an answer to the questions his eyes had silently posed. She found herself walking, almost instinctively, back towards the tattoo parlor.
The bell above the door chimed softly as she entered. The air inside was thick with the familiar scent of disinfectant and a faint, metallic tang. Eliott was at his station, his back to her, focused on a intricate design. The hum of the machine was the only sound. His shoulders, visible beneath the thin fabric of his tank top, flexed with each precise movement. He was a canvas of living art, and she was drawn to every line, every shadow.
He sensed her presence before she spoke, stopping the machine and turning slowly. His stormy eyes met hers, a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher in their depths – surprise? Expectation? A hint of triumph?
"Back again, little bird?" he asked, his voice low, a knowing rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. The easy smirk was back, but there was an underlying current of intensity she hadn't noticed before.
Maëlys felt her cheeks warm, but she stood her ground. "I... I was curious," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze drifted to his arms, to the dark, swirling patterns that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. "Your tattoos. They're... intriguing."
Eliott leaned back in his chair, crossing his powerful arms over his chest. The movement pulled the fabric taut, highlighting the defined muscles beneath. "They tell stories," he said, his voice softer now, almost inviting. "Every mark has a meaning. A memory."
He picked up a small, sterile towel and wiped his hands. Then, he extended his right arm towards her, turning it slowly. "This one," he began, his finger tracing a complex pattern of intertwined thorns and a single, blooming rose on his forearm. "This is for a promise made. A promise I couldn't keep." His gaze met hers, a flash of raw pain in his eyes that made Maëlys's breath catch. It was a pain she instinctively recognized, a mirror of her own unremembered anguish.
"And this," he continued, turning his left arm, revealing a raven with outstretched wings, its claws gripping a fractured piece of stone. "This is for loss. For something... shattered. Beyond repair." His voice was devoid of emotion, yet the words hung heavy in the air, weighted with unspoken grief.
Maëlys felt a strange connection blooming between them, a silent understanding forged in shared, unarticulated trauma. His stories, etched into his skin, resonated with the void inside her. She felt drawn to touch the ink, to trace the lines of his pain, to see if it would ignite any spark in her own lost memories.
As he finished, his eyes, dark and heavy, returned to hers. "They're a map," he murmured, his voice now a husky whisper. "A map of who I am. Of what I've survived." He leaned closer, his scent, that intoxicating mix of musk and something wild, filling her senses. "Do you have any marks, Maëlys? Any stories etched on your skin... or your soul?"
His question hung in the air, a challenge, an invitation. Maëlys felt a tremor run through her. He wasn't just talking about tattoos anymore. He was talking about the invisible scars, the ones that truly mattered. And for the first time, she wondered if his marks held a clue to her own.