The Tattoo Artist

When I pushed open the heavy glass door of the Nightshade Tattoo Studio, the wind chime above it rang out in a crisp cascade of sound.

Henry Kane sat on a tall stool behind the workstation, wearing a black mask as he lowered his head and sketched.

The air-conditioning ran cold inside the shop, carrying a faint blend of disinfectant and sharp tobacco.

It was an unmistakable scent that belonged only to him.

At the sound, he did not even look up; only the pencil in his hand paused for a brief moment.

A black T-shirt stretched across his broad back, and with each breath, his shoulder blades lifted the fabric, outlining muscle lines taut with restrained power.

In that instant, excited comments filled my vision:

“Ahhh! Those shoulders! That waistline! I could just embrace him from behind…”

“Hey, stop daydreaming! Henry is desperately suppressing the restlessness inside him. His woman is here, and he can barely hide his tail!”

“So this is the legendary beast in human form? He’s just drawing… But why does it feel like he’s hunting instead?”

I swallowed hard, and my steps, which had still felt unsteady from just recovering from a high fever, suddenly grew heavy.

“Sit.”

Henry finally lifted his eyes and glanced at me.

Those unfathomably deep eyes swept over me, and his gaze seemed to linger in midair for a second before quickly moving away.

There was an unmistakable coldness that warned others to keep their distance, yet it felt as though something tempting lay hidden beneath it.

I obediently walked to the leather chair beside the workstation and sat down, placing my hands neatly on my knees.

Henry set down his pencil and stood, walking toward the sink.

The sound of running water filled the room.

As I watched his long fingers rinse beneath the stream, an image from my first visit, when I had come to tattoo my collarbone, rose unbidden in my mind.

That day, I had sat the same way, so nervous I had felt like a quail awaiting slaughter.

Because I feared the pain, I had clutched the hem of his shirt, wrinkling that expensive-looking black tee into a mess.

Henry had not grown impatient; instead, he had leaned closer.

He had moved so near that I could see each distinct eyelash and feel his warm breath brushing against the side of my neck.

“Relax.”

His low voice had sounded like a cello, sensual and filled with warmth.

“Take a deep breath. If your muscles are too tense, the lines will become crooked, hm?”

“O-okay,” I managed eventually.

At the time, my soul had nearly fled my body.

All I could feel was that large hand in a black nitrile glove gently pressing against my shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin layer of rubber.

It was the stark contrast between ultimate gentleness and restrained violence.