She hesitates in the doorway, hoodie too big, sleeves covering her wrists, her fingers rubbing raw lines into the hem. She lookslike she’s bracing for something she won’t name. Then she nods. Wordless.
That scares me the most—she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t snark. Doesn’t give me attitude or suspicion or that little eyebrow lift she always does when she’s pretending she’s not curious. She just follows.
The streets are gray, washed-out concrete and washed-out sky. She walks half a step behind me, not because she’s scared but because she’s exhausted. Her silence clings to my ribs. I want to peel it off her with my hands, make her talk, make her fight, make her breathe.
Ink & Sin sits wedged between a pawn shop with boards nailed at jagged angles and an always-empty laundromat that smells like bleach and nothing else. The neon over the tattoo shop flickers—INK & SIN, except three letters are dead, so it reads IN & S. Something about the brokenness fits her mood too well.
Valentina studies it for a long moment. Her lashes lower. Her voice is a whisper, barely there. “Is this… safe?”
“With Frankie?” I ask. “Always.”
I push the door open. The hum of tattoo machines fills the air immediately—steady, rhythmic, like mechanical heartbeats. The surfaces gleam under bright lights: metal trays, glass cabinets stuffed with ink, gloves, syringes, caps. The walls are a mosaic of flash sheets, some clean and minimalist, others violent and ornate—skulls wrapped in roses, saints with cracked halos, wolves devouring moonlight.
Val steps in cautiously. Her eyes keep shifting, taking everything in. I watch the way her shoulders sit too high, the way she breathes too shallow.
Frankie emerges from the back like a hurricane wearing combat boots. Purple hair shaved on one side, the rest wild around her face. Tattoos layered over tattoos until she looks like a walking, breathing mural. Piercings glint wherever she moves.
She wipes her hands on a towel and stops dead when she sees Valentina.
“Holy shit,” Frankie says slowly. “You didn’t tell me she was this gorgeous.”
Valentina’s eyes widen. She tries to step behind me, but I move without thinking, blocking Frankie’s view with my body. Frankie laughs loudly.
“Oh my god. He’s jealous. That’s actually adorable. Isaiah, your face looks like a rabid raccoon guarding a chicken nugget.”
“Shut up,” I say.
Valentina hovers close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm. Not deliberate, not playful—instinctual. Seeking closeness. Seeking protection.
Something coils low in me with a dark, possessive satisfaction.
Frankie winks at Valentina. “I’m harmless. Mostly. Name’s Frankie. He probably didn’t tell you I exist.”
“I—hi,” Val stammers.
She’s flustered, and the sight punches something warm into my chest. I haven’t seen her react to anything in days.
Frankie nods toward the back. “Come on. I’ll put you two in the private chair. You can hide there if the Vipers show up early.”
Valentina stops. “Vipers? They—come here?”
“Yep,” Frankie says. “They get their tats touched up like clockwork. Rumor is Killian’s putting some of his boys ‘on the books.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
My jaw tightens.
“Frankie,” I warn.
She lifts her hands. “I’m just saying. Your girl deserves the heads-up.”
Valentina stiffens at the phraseyour girl, but she doesn’t correct it.
And that… that does something to me. Something dangerous.
We slip into the back room behind a curtain of clinking metal beads. The private space is dimmer, warmer, with a single tattoo chair in the center under an adjustable lamp. Needles, ink caps, gloves, alcohol wipes arranged neatly on metal trays. The walls are lined with sketches—inked saints and sinners, roses wrapping around ribs, intricate linework curling into shapes that look like spellwork.
Valentina lowers herself into the chair. Her hands twist in the hem of her hoodie again.
I roll the stool toward her and rest my arm on the edge of the chair. “How’s your breathing?” I ask.