Chapter 8: The Wrong Tattoo

Lana's Point of View

The hot water hit my shoulders, which were soft and warm, but my body still shook like I was outside in the cold rain. I closed my eyes and let the steam cover my face. If I stayed here long enough, I might wake up in a different place. Somewhere that made sense. Somewhere that didn't have a man who said he was my husband watching me like he was afraid to blink.

I pulled my fingers through my wet hair and let out a slow breath. Lana, just breathe...

The water got louder. My heart raced faster too.

I raised my hand to rub my forehead, and then I stopped.

There was something dark on my wrist.

A mark.

A form.

Not dirt.

Not a shadow.

Not something that could be cleaned off.

A tattoo.

There is a small, neat, sharp black mark just below the thin skin on my wrist. A small shape that looks like a crescent with a line through it.

I opened my mouth. I couldn't breathe.

"No... no... no..."

My voice broke. The water went everywhere because my hand shook so hard.

I put my wrist close to my face. I blinked quickly, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the mark stayed there—dark, clear, and real.

For real.

A tattoo.

On me.

Something cold crawled up my back.

I never liked getting tattoos.

I never wanted one.

I told the nurse that yesterday.

What was it doing there?

My stomach dropped so quickly that my knees gave way. I leaned against the wall, and my wet fingers slid over the tile.

"What is this?" I whispered, and my voice shook.

"What's this? What's this?"

Then the fear hit me all at once, hard and fast—

"NO!"

Without warning, the scream came out of me. A sound that is rough and broken.

The kind that happens when your body tells you something that your mind can't figure out.

The door to the bathroom slammed open.

"Lana!" Adrian's voice came before his body did.

He didn't seem mad.

He didn't seem angry.

He looked really scared.

He stepped into the steam and asked, "What happened?"

I fell back, clutching my wrist to my chest as if it were a wound.

"Get back!" I yelled.

His hands slowly went up, which meant he wasn't getting closer. His chest rose and fell quickly. "What's wrong?"

My whole arm shook. I raised my wrist, and water ran down it.

"WHAT IS THIS?"

His eyes dropped to it, and something in his face changed.

A little thing.

Fast.

Not very visible.

But I did see it.

Like... dread.

I took one more step back.

He said softly, "Lana, you've seen it before."

"No," I said, shaking my head hard. "No, no, no, I would never do this."

He took a deep breath.

"You did."

My heart was beating so hard it hurt.

He said softly, "You got it on a weekend trip."

"What trip on the weekend?" My voice broke again.

He gulped. "Two years ago."

"But I don't recall!"

He said, "That's not your fault." "I know."

"I don't believe you."

The room was quiet, and the air was thick and wet like steam.

He looked at me the same way he did when I woke up yesterday, like I was a glass cup falling off a shelf. His fingers curled a little, like he wanted to run to me but stopped himself.

He said, "That was your idea." "You said the sign meant a promise."

"What promise?"

"You didn't tell me."

I couldn't breathe.

My head buzzed again. The lights above me looked like they were moving. My skin felt too tight all over my body.

Everything was off.

I whispered, "That's not my wrist." "That's not my life." Someone else, not me, did all of this.

"Lana..."

His voice got softer. Not hard enough. The kind of soft that hides something sharp.

"I don't know you," I said. "I don't know this house." I don't know this—this mark.

A flash cut through my mind all of a sudden.

Fast.

Soft.

Like warm light coming through curtains.

My hand, this same wrist, was resting on a man's shoulder.

My fingers curled around the back of his neck.

My voice is laughing.

His lips brushing against my tattoo—

I gasped and let go of my wrist. The flash came and went in a flash, leaving me empty and dizzy.

Adrian stepped forward, and his eyes filled with fear. "Did you think of something?"

"No," I lied quickly and sharply.

His eyebrows came together. "Lana—"

"I SAID NO!"

When I pushed past him, water splashed all over the place. He didn't try to stop me. He might have been afraid to touch me. Or maybe he knew I would break if he did.

With shaky hands, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself. My skin was still hot from the shower, but I was cold all the way through.

He stood by the door and watched every little thing I did.

He said softly, "I'm here to help you."

My chest felt tight.

He sounded so sure of himself.

Too sure.

I whispered, "How can I trust you when every new thing I find makes me feel like I'm living someone else's life?"

He closed his eyes for a second, as if my words hurt.

He opened them again after that.

Face calm.

Be quiet.

Full control.

"Let me explain everything at your own pace," he said. "No stress." No fear.

But there was fear.

It went around my ribs.

It was in the air between us.

It hurt in the little tattoo on my wrist.

I didn't say anything else as I left the bathroom.

At first, he didn't follow.

But then I heard him walk—slowly, heavily, and carefully.

"Lana," he said.

I kept walking.

He tried again.

"Please."

The way he said "please" made me stop for a second.

One second.

But I didn't look back.

I opened the door to the bedroom and stood there, dripping water on the floor, breathing hard, and trying to think and figure things out.

He walked into the doorway behind me and stopped a few feet away.

He said, "You don't have to be afraid of me."

I touched the tattoo with my fingers again.

I said in a low voice, "I'm scared of myself."

The air stopped moving.

His voice got lower and steadier.

"You are safe here."

I slowly turned my head so that I could see his eyes.

I asked, "So why do I feel like everything in this house is hiding something?"

He took a deep breath.

He opened his mouth to say something—

But the loud, sharp ring of a phone broke the silence in the room.

Not his phone.

Not mine.

Somewhere else in the house.

He stopped moving.

And for the first time since I met him, I could see fear in his eyes.

Fear that is real.

He quickly turned towards the sound.

Too quickly.

I took one slow step back, holding my wrist, while he whispered in my ear:

"No... not now..."

His voice wasn't for me.

But I heard every word.

And I knew that the tattoo wasn't the truth I was afraid of.

It was the guy who was running to answer the phone.