TWISTED BONDS
she confessed, pulling me by the hand as she dragged me into the parlor.
I had never gotten any tattoos. For me, it was a combination of being cautious due to my job and a fondness for my plain skin. But now, everything was shifting with this woman—my wife.
The tattoo artist was a female whom Gianna called Weed, though her name was actually Reed.
Unlike me, Gianna had a decent collection of tattoos, but I noticed they were mostly minimalistic designs—a small crescent moon on her wrist, her name written in cursive on her thigh, and a cross on her index finger. I even caught sight of something on her chest.
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