Chapter 5: The Cross Tattoo
The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile white room. Celeste Grayson blinked against the pale hospital light above her, her head still ringing from the night before. Her body ached, her wrist throbbed, and her memory was clouded—but she was alive.
The attack had come like a nightmare. A masked man. A flash of silver. Cold intent. She had been sure it was her end, and yet, here she was, wrapped in clean sheets, surrounded by the faint scent of antiseptic and flowers someone had left at her bedside.
Then the door creaked open.
Damian.
He walked in slowly, as if second-guessing every step. The sharp lines of his jaw were set, his hands buried in the pockets of his dark coat. He looked out of place in the hospital room — too perfectly dressed, too calm, too untouched.
Celeste sat up straighter, her lips parting. "You came?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes locked onto her wrist. Her left wrist.
And there it was — the tattoo.
A black cross-shaped mark, etched into her skin, glowing faintly under the room's pale light.
Damian's eyes widened. "What is that?"
Celeste blinked and followed his gaze. Her heart nearly stopped.
"The hell…?" she muttered, rubbing her wrist as if she could wipe it off. Her fingers scraped at the skin. "This wasn't here before. What is this?"
"You tell me," Damian said slowly, approaching her like she might suddenly combust. "That's my mark."
"Your what?" Celeste gasped, her voice rising. "No. No. This has to be fake. Maybe they tattooed me while I was unconscious. A prank? No, no way—this has to come off."
She reached for her phone and began typing frantically. "Tattoo removal near me. Laser treatment. Acid... chemical peel—there has to be a way."
Damian narrowed his eyes. "You can't remove that mark."
"Oh, watch me," she snapped. "I don't know how this happened, but I didn't ask to be branded like your property!"
He grabbed her wrist, and in an instant, a cold blue spark flashed between their skin.
Both of them froze.
Celeste's eyes widened. "That—what was that?"
Damian slowly released her wrist. His breath caught. "My powers. I can still feel them... through you."
She stared at him, realization dawning. "So it works. Your power still works when you touch me."
"This shouldn't be possible," he muttered, pacing. "The cross wasn't meant for you."
"And yet here we are," Celeste said, watching him carefully.
The door opened again. Two men in suits walked in—detectives. They flashed badges and polite smiles.
"Miss Grayson," one of them said. "We're here to follow up on the incident. May we have a few minutes?"
"Sure," Celeste nodded.
The other man glanced at Damian. "And you are?"
Damian paused. "Her husband."
Celeste raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The officers looked at each other and scribbled on their notepads.
"Do you remember anything about the attacker?" one asked.
"He wore a mask," Celeste said. "I didn't see his face. Just... cold eyes. He didn't say anything. He came straight for me like he knew who I was."
They asked a few more questions, and when they left the room, Celeste could hear their voices down the hall.
"Damn. Did you see that guy?"
"Which one?"
"The 'husband.' Guy looked like he walked out of a fashion shoot. Did you see his coat? Italian. And that jawline? Model status."
"Focus, Jenkins."
Back in the room, silence settled between them again.
Celeste studied Damian, his back turned to her.
"So," she said after a while, "you're just going to walk away?"
Damian turned slightly. "I shouldn't have come in the first place."
"You saw what happened. Someone tried to kill me."
He didn't answer.
"You think this was random? You think the mark on my wrist is random? You said it wasn't meant for me, but I have it. So maybe someone else saw it too and thought I was you."
"I'm not a bodyguard," he said coldly. "I don't stick around. I don't protect people."
Celeste stared at him. "Fine," she said, her tone shifting. "But just so you know… this tattoo? I've already booked a consultation to get it removed."
Damian whipped his head toward her. "You wouldn't."
She raised her wrist. "Watch me. I'll use acid, lasers, sandpaper if I have to. And when it's gone? Whatever power is running between us—poof. No more magic touch."
"You're insane."
"Maybe," she said with a smirk. "But I'm also not going to die because some supernatural freak show mistook me for you."
He looked torn — furious, confused, desperate. Then without another word, Damian pulled a phone from his pocket, scribbled something down, and tossed it on the side table beside her.
"My number," he said stiffly. "Call me if anything happens."
And then he walked out.
Celeste stared at the number.
She waited.
Then she picked up her phone, dialed, and when he picked up, she smiled darkly.
"I'll give you 24 hours," she said. "Either you agree to be my bodyguard, or this little cross tattoo gets fried. I mean it, Damian."
A pause on the line.
"Good night," she added sweetly, and hung up before he could reply.