His Mate, My Spy
Damien’s shoulder.
She had seen it before without paying much attention, the large tattoo resting against his skin on his shoulder like something decorative, something chosen. It was shaped like a flower, dark and detailed, but the more she thought about it now, the more something about it stood out.
It didn’t align the way it should have.
The lines felt forced, slightly uneven, as though the design had been shaped around something else instead of standing on its own. It carried a subtle imperfection that didn’t match the man who wore it.