“Like a woman being hunted.”
“I was.”
“Not right now.”
The needle touches skin.
Pain blooms sharp and hot behind my ear. Not unbearable. Not even close.
After everything, pain this small almost feels insulting. I focus on the bikes. The oil smell. The string lights.
Hot Mama’s steady hand. The fact that I’m choosing this, even if the choice comes wrapped in fear.
Derby’s voice drifts from somewhere near the bunkhouse, low and amused. August answers sleepily. I can’t hear the words, but I hear the rhythm.
Safe.
For now.
When it’s done, Hot Mama wipes my skin gently.
“All right,” she says.
She hands me a little mirror.
I lift it with shaking fingers.
The crown sits behind my ear, black and clean against red skin.
Tiny.
Sharp.
Mine.
A sob catches in my throat.
Hot Mama watches me in the mirror. Not smiling now. Not joking.
“Every crown gets a name sooner or later.”
My fingers tighten around the mirror. “I already have a name.”
“You got a birth name. A married name you’re shedding. A Welles name that comes with ghosts. This one is different.”
I look at the tiny black crown behind my ear.
“I don’t want another name.”
“Most women don’t. Names ask something from us.”
I breathe in deep. The garage smells like ink, oil, pine smoke, and every road I took to get here. Hot Mama leans one hip against the workbench, red mouth softening into something almost kind.
“Caroline made rooms look at her even when she was trying to disappear. You got that from her. But you got something else too. You don’t just walk into a room, baby. You make the room rearrange around what you need.”
I let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like an insult.”
“It can be, if a woman uses it wrong.”