“Get to it, woman.”
She closed her eyes briefly, not certain if she was drowning in those dark waters already. Taking a breath, she poured the lotion into her palms and started with his shoulders. He was much taller than her and she had to lean over his body in order to work on his shoulders, but she didn’t want to sit on his butt, or just above it, where part of the tattoo was. It was very large, spreading across his back and down to the very edge of his buttocks. Thankfully, he’d kept his jeans on, but she could see the roots and skulls crawling below the low-slung material.
“Seychelle.”
“Yes?” She tried to calm her accelerating heart at his tone. He always sounded so dictatorial. So in charge.
“Slide up higher. You’re going to get tired trying to massage my shoulders like that.”
He had eyes in the back of his head. That was the only explanation. “You just said no one should touch your tattoo. I don’t want to sit on it.”
His body jerked, and for a moment she thought he might be laughing. She couldn’t imagine it, but one never knew. “You don’t want to sit on my tattoo?” he echoed. “Why? Do you think it would be disrespectful for your sweet little pussy or your prizewinning ass to rub around on my tattoo? Get serious, babe.”
“Don’t talk about my ass or my . . . er . . . pussy. You don’t know me that well.” She forced indignation into her voice and then scooted up, settling herself comfortably before her fingers dug into his shoulders extra hard. He didn’t so much as flinch. He had scars everywhere. Everywhere. And burn marks. Really awful burns aside from the letters. She didn’t ask him a single question about them.
“I talk about anything I damn well want to when it’s mine. I claimed you, remember? I’m your fucking fiancé. I wouldn’t forget that if I were you.”
She burst out laughing. Who knew that Savage would actually have a sense of humor? “Fine, but if I’m your fiancée, I should know a few things about you.”
“Before you get all nosy, it goes both ways.”
She put more pressure on his muscles, determined to loosen them. “I’m agreeable to that. It’s not like I have tons to hide.”
“Anything we say doesn’t affect the relationship. You can’t get weird because you don’t like an answer I give you, or a question I ask.”
That gave her pause. She moved over him to work the muscles she could feel were knotted and giving him trouble. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to enter into this strange game with him. It was the middle of the night, and she was draining herself by letting him take pieces of her. Still, she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She could only try to save herself.
“I thought you were going to sleep.”
“You’re not a coward, Seychelle. Ask a question.”
“What does the tree represent?”
“It’s not a what, it’s a who. The trunk of the tree represents Czar—he’s president of Torpedo Ink. There are seventeen branches. That’s the rest of us. The crows are those that never made it out. The skulls are the ones we did in to escape, or for our country.”
She closed her eyes against the wave of rage rising in him. It swirled hot and fast, threatening to engulf her. As it was, the waves crashed over her like a tsunami, drowning her in his terrible need. He didn’t even know what he was doing to her. He’d lived with that feeling for so long he didn’t acknowledge it to himself. She saw how it stayed inside of him, waiting to flare, building slowly, waiting for a moment to erupt. Savage was a very scary man. She tried to remind herself he wasn’t a pet. He was more of a feral tiger, raging in a cage, waiting to rip anyone apart to escape.
He was telling her the truth. Whatever he had been through with the rest of his club had been horrific. There was a reason for that rage, and she didn’t want to know what it was. He was pulling her down with him, and on some level, he knew what he was doing. Unlike with the rage he couldn’t rid himself of, which he mostly ignored until it was too late, he knew that by lying on the bed with her, he was leaking his nightmares right into her.
Never made it out of what? Of where? He’d been somewhere terrible. She caught glimpses. Images. Blood pouring down his back. Stripes on flesh. Children screaming. Moaning. Crying. Chains. She smelled burning flesh. She snapped her head back and forced herself to breathe, not to go there. Not to let herself see anything but the beautiful ink work on his back, and his muscles knotted and needing her touch.