“Why not? You are mine.”
“And are you going to one with my name?”
“Hell yeah, I am.” He pointed to his left arm that had the image of a Viking on it. “Got this done before I went into the Special Forces.” He pointed at his right arm that had three faces on it. One face had a hand over their eyes, another over their mouth, another over their ears. “Got this done after I was discharged. My chest I’ve added to over the years since. And I’m going to get brown eyes written right here.” He pointed at the other side of his chest.
She sucked in a breath at the idea, running her finger over the bare patch of skin where his nickname for her would go.
“I like that.”
“Me too.”
“Do you know that I don’t even know your real name?”
“Because Ink is my name now. But my birth name was Tracey.”
Tracey? He didn’t seem like a Tracey.
Red filled his cheeks. “My mom had a thing for Dick Tracey. I got teased about it mercilessly in school until Duke moved to our school and became my best friend. I was scrawny for my age. He wasn’t.”
Hmm, there was nothing scrawny about him now.
“At least she didn’t call you Dick,” she pointed out.
He grinned. “You don’t think I could pull that name off?”
She rolled her eyes at him.
“When I was in the Special Forces, my nickname was Rage. Because of my temper. Now, it’s Ink. Betsy’s Ink.”
Oh. She liked the sound of that.
“Eat some more,” he commanded.
“I can’t. I’m full.” She placed her hand over her tummy. Stress had never been her friend. And while a lot of it had been relieved by that spanking she still felt worried.
Leaning over, he grasped hold of her chin. “You need to stop stressing so much. You’re not alone anymore. I’m here and I will always protect you, Betsy. Here, let me show you. This is you.”
He placed a glass in the middle of the coffee table. He got up and moved to the kitchen, grabbing something out of a drawer and bringing it back to the coffee table.
“This is the rest of the world.”
Packets of mayo and ketchup lay on the coffee table from countless take-out meals. Her lips twitched. He scattered them around the outside of the table. Then he got up and grabbed a marker, drawing a circle around the cup.
“Ink!” she protested.
“What?”
“That’s permanent marker.”
He shrugged and drew another, wider circle around the smaller one. It formed a larger, protective circle around her. Well, the cup.
Symbolism, Betsy.
It was like a giant moat. All the packets of condiments were on one side. She was tucked safely on the island.
He drew a stick figure between the two circles.
“Mama would turn in her grave to see this,” she said without thinking.