Draven's pov
I never liked unfinished things.
Deals. Buildings. People.
I wanted them defined. Shaped. Owned.
So when I told the tattoo artist to bring his kit to the villa, I wasn't thinking about morality or optics,I was thinking about permanence.
Eira had been haunting my veins for weeks now. She took up space in my thoughts like smoke in a burning building. I couldn't think straight when she walked past. I couldn't breathe right when she was too far away. And the worst part? She hadn't even asked for any of it. Not her freedom. Not her place in my world. Not even my loyalty.
But she had it.
Hell, she had all of me,and I hated it.
The artist stood waiting, his hands gloved, tools lined neatly in a steel case. He'd inked the backs of killers and traitors, men who had made vows in blood and burned them just as fast. But he looked nervous now, unsure if he should even be here.