ElenaI was wearing Jax's shirt, the fabric loose around my shoulders and carrying the faint warmth of him, sitting atop Ashton as I traced my fingers along the ink mapped across his skin. His tattoos were intriguing in the way old things are — intricate patterns, beautiful shapes and texts that coiled into one another like a language only the body could speak. I could understand a few of them, but some were too cryptic, too layered, and every time one lost me I tilted my head and asked. And Ashton here gladly answered.For example—It was written in French on his left peck—Die Like A warrior, Live Like a King.Jax, absentmindedly traced small patterns against my kneecap, then dragged his fingers slowly up my thigh and back down — a lazy, unhurried movement that shouldn't have felt like anything at all, yet somehow felt like everything.It soothed me.Kept me grounded."You guys have too many tattoos," I murmured, fingertips brushing the crescent moon inked just below Ashton's throat.
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