Novel & Cerita Sternum Between Breast Tattoos

Of course he was. Zara stopped in the doorway. Took a quiet breath. Kept her face neutral through what she considered an Olympic level effort. His back was to her. Wide shoulders, the kind of build that came from actually using your body, not just performing fitness. There was a tattoo she’d never seen before curling up from his left shoulder blade, dark ink, something geometric, something that looked unfinished like a sentence without its ending. Must be a new tattoo. She looked away. Looked back.

It was clearly a sore subject. His breath was deep now, his chest rising and falling slowly. Kate’s eyes traveled to his chest tattoo; a black and grey skull with a snake constricting it covering the majority of his left pectoral muscle. It continued across his shoulder and down his left bicep. She wondered if it had any significance, deciding to ask him when he awoke.

I hear Tatum say. "Yes it is." I say as I continue looking up at the sky. " I wasn't talking about the moon." I hear Tatum whisper in my ear. I instantly feel my heart start to race. I look down and quickly move to the side and turn around. I look at Tatum suddenly realizing he's shirtless. The tattoo that always peeks out above his suit collar spans down his neck to his shoulder, chest, and side. Its beautiful tribal design holds many details as the lines cross over in every direction. I suddenly realize I'm staring and feel my cheeks flush.

I let the fabric fall, the cool air of the room hitting my skin, and then I saw them. I let out a soft, jagged breath. Two faded crescents of dark purple and red were stamped onto the pale curve of my breasts. I stepped closer to the glass, my hand trembling as I reached up to touch the one on the right. The second my fingertip brushed the bruised skin, a stinging heat shot through me. "Jesus, Rino," I whispered.

I really did not want to feel weak ever again. My parents totally thought I was crazy when I decided to get a few tattoos. I had a big one slung over my shoulder that reached down to my bicep—our crew's tribal symbol. I also had another large one on my back and a warrior symbol on my inner bicep, courtesy of Gaspar. But my favorite was a cool tattoo guys get when they find their match. It sat just below my waistband, right in the middle of my stomach. A symbol that looked like this: ∞.

"They stopped suddenly, too, as if he thought we were a...lost cause." Tristan's gaze met hers. "Was there anything else you can recall about the man tonight?" She went to shake her head, but then something flickered to mind. "He had a tattoo on his left pec, over his heart. It was about three inches long." She straightened, making Brady shift his hand to her hip. "I need something to draw on." Ceara stood and went to a shelf, bringing back a pad of paper and pen.

My gaze drifted unconsciously to his collarbone. There was a new tattoo there. Red, still swollen from being freshly inked, but unmistakable. It was my name. The characters were rendered in the most ancient, wild cursive form of script, like an old, binding sigil. My fingers trembled as I touched it. “When did you… get this?” Henry caught my hand and rubbed it gently against his palm. “Last night, after you fell asleep.” “Did it hurt?” “It was better that it hurt.” His eyes darkened, and a satisfied smile curved his lips.

He took a deep breath, his chest rising slowly. When he was finally naked, the contrast between his refined aura and the body marked by maritime tattoos became impossible to miss. Across his chest, a map intertwined with a compass; on his left arm, an anchor plunging into rough seas, wrapped in a ribbon that read “Mother” at the top and a date engraved beneath; on his other arm, an old-style ship, as if lifted straight from pirate tales. Symbols of direction, loss, and belonging—ones few people knew how to read.

She knows the piece well. It’s a beautiful peacock-like bird, but it was orange and red, a phoenix. There are lilies trailing behind it in a sweeping line across her back, each with a name cleverly hidden in the stamens. Her tattoo sleeves look like smoke is rising from between her fingers and curling around her arms and up to and around her shoulders. The tattoos on her arms meet up with the back piece, connecting it all together. She’s had this tattoo for years, unaware of the irony.

Letting go of Samantha’s hand, I watch as she positions herself on the chair before I move closer so I can stand next to her. “Great,” Dante murmurs. “I was told you want a tattoo of shaded bricks with a flower growing out of them.” Samantha nods. “And I want the words ‘stronger than ever’ over the bricks as if it’s graffiti.” Dante nods, then asks, “Where do you want the tattoo?” Her features tighten, and she looks more nervous than usual as she gestures at her side. When I realize it will be a couple of inches beneath her breast, there’s a burst of jealousy in my chest because Dante will be working close to what I consider mine.