Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(28)

And oh, how I would love to graze my fingers over those fine lines and broad strokes of ink.

The centerpiece, the tour-de-force, is an amazingly ornate set of wings—Egyptian in style—that span his thick chest, cradling two hearts in an hourglass.

By the time my eyes start to travel back to his, I’m hot and wet in all the right places . . . and he knows it.

He smiles wide with sexy, playful mischief.

Way to handle the heat, Rachel! I turn away but the damage is so done.

“Oh,” he says, “you found the clothes.” Could be my imagination, but he sounds disappointed.

“Yeah, great fit. How’s the arm?”

“Want to see?”

Oh, what I’d like to see! “Yes.”

He sits his shapely, hard ass on the table and situates himself so he has a clear view of his arm in the wall mirror.

“Pass over the Everclear and the floss.”

I don’t know what those muscles are that are right above the ass, but they kind of dimple on the very lowest part of the back—yeah, those on him are like artwork on a statue at a museum—like Michelangelo’s David.

On his back, he has an enormous tattoo of a sword—the hilt spans across both shoulders, while the blade glides to the last vertebrae of his spine and is surrounded by tribal lines.

His nudity is making me . . . not think straight in this very sobering situation.

I snag the bottle and plastic square of unflavored dental floss off the counter and bring them over to him.

He picks up the bottle and unscrews it with his teeth, spits out the top, and takes a swig. The action makes him grimace. “God, that’s awful shit!”

So fast, as if he doesn’t want to actually think about doing it, he spills the alcohol over the wounds in his arm.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” he shouts.

His whole arm flexes violently, his jaw clenches and his muscles strain as he physically struggles to handle that kind of ugly pain.

Sympathetically, I blow gentle, cool air over his arm. A moment later his body visibly relaxes. I pick up the cloth and blot at the excess mix of blood and Everclear that rained down his arm.

My eyes meet his, and he groans. “They’re even more amazing in full light.”

“Excuse me?” I don’t know if I heard him right.

“Your eyes were beautiful last night in the moonlight. But now . . . hmmm.”

I’m speechless.

He sets the bottle back on the table, pops open the floss with his thumb and strings it through a needle. “I may not be very talkative for the next twenty minutes or so.”

“I understand,” I respond. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

“Just hang around. You’ll make me braver.”

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever seen.”

At that, he smiles and stabs the needle through his flesh.

We don’t speak.

After the first tooth hole is closed, he moves right on to the next, with no break or pause to rest. Beads of sweat spill over his forehead. Quickly, I soak a towel in cold water, come back and wipe him down.

My thoughts—along with my eyes—travel to the decorative script tats. I feel like this might be my only chance to read them undetected.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

Pale death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and the palaces of kings.

I’m prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.

That one makes me laugh out loud.

“Getting some reading done, Farrington?”

How does he do that? Know everything going on around him?

“Yeah,” I confess, embarrassed. “Well . . . they’re right in front of me.”

“Read to me, then.”

My head bounces in an automatic nod. I can do that. “The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”

“That’s Mark Twain. Another.”

I swab his head and face as he continues to mend himself. I can’t imagine the violent pain and sheer willpower stitching his own wounds without anesthetic must take.

“If a man has not discovered something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” I read the beautiful circle of words that are engraved in his lower shoulder, underneath the sword’s hilt.

“That was Martin Luther King, Jr.,” he barely breathes.

“Yes, it was,” I agree before continuing. “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

He groans as he threads through the end of the third hole, which is close to the inside of his elbow. “Sensitive spot. Hurt like f*ck with the tat needle too.”

The artwork on his body, the quotes—life, death—the gods and goddesses of death or the next life . . . he is a memorial.

I thought reading the quotes might satiate my curiosity, but instead it’s only fueled the growing flame.

“By the way, that last quote was Shakespeare,” I tell him.

I want to know about his obsession with death. What led him to create this memorial over his body? I sigh deeply, understanding more now why he threw himself between me and the jaws of death.

“Come on, Farrington, distract me,” he growls against the pain.