“They think I’m going to be broke and homeless in my forties, that I can’t possibly have a lifelong career doing this. So I guess that means they don’t approve.”

“And what about the tattoos and the shaved head and streaks of blue?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I thought I was fierce, stunning, captivating,” I tease, though inside there’s a hint of panic. What if he was just leading me on before?

“You are all those things. You’re also not my daughter.”

Thank God for that. “Fair point,” I mutter under my breath.

“What made you come back to San Francisco?”

“I got tired of floating, and going back to Oregon just wasn’t for me.” My arm is settled against his stomach, and the feel of my bare skin against his is intoxicating. And, seriously . . . I think it’d be impossible for any guy to be turned on right now, but it looks like he could be, or else he must just have an impressive—

“Are you almost done with the outline?”

“Just about,” I say, too breathless, flushing as if I just got caught. “Why? You need a break already?” That Sebastian hasn’t asked to stretch or take a moment to pee up until now may be a new record for my clients.

“Keep going.”

SIXTEEN

SEBASTIAN

HOUR FIVE

She’s switched positions to fill in the bottom part of the design, her ass cheek perched on the table and her thigh pressed against my back as she faces my lower half. It’s the perfect angle for her to size up my junk, and she thinks I don’t know she’s doing it.

The mirror across from me, which gives me a good angle of her face, doesn’t lie.

“How’re you doing?” she murmurs.

“I’m good.”

“Seriously, you’re the most unaffected person I’ve ever worked on.”

“I have a high pain threshold.” “Unaffected” is probably not the right word for what I feel, with her draped over my body. Luckily I don’t enjoy pain, so getting a hard-on right now is just about impossible.

“Are you sure you’re not just a cyborg?” she jokes. I love her humor, and the way she delivers it—deadpan.

“Are you saying I don’t have feelings? That hurts.” This pain is laughable compared to the bullet in my thigh.

“Or maybe you’re just playing tough and trying to impress me, Army Boy.”

“Navy Boy, if you want to get specific. Those army guys are wimps.” It’s the first shred of real information I’ve offered her about my past life and I shouldn’t have done it. This room, this chair, spending hours motionless, completely at her mercy . . . I haven’t spent this much time with one person in years. It’s messing with my head.

“Did you serve overseas?” she asks quietly, as if she knows she’s treading in unwelcome territory.

“Two tours in Afghanistan.”

She slides off the table. “Roll back this way. It’s easier for me to fill this with you lying on your back.” Her hand guides me and then slides onto my hip, pushing the elastic band of my briefs down and holding it there. The needle digs into my sensitive flesh. “Did you have to kill anyone?” she asks, and the question sounds so jarring, even though I knew it was coming.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Too many.” I close my eyes, like I still have to sometimes when I let myself really consider that question. It’s easier now that I’m out, when Bentley hands me a specific target and gives me an order. I know it’s a verdict that isn’t being reached lightly because Bentley doesn’t treat casualties carelessly. Back when I was a SEAL and trudging through enemy territory with my team, guns trained, and adrenaline propelling my limbs forward, I never knew exactly where the danger would come from, and in what form. We were forced to make split-second decisions or risk death all the time. Self-preservation is a powerful and sometimes blinding need.

It was so easy to make a mistake.

“Why did you choose the reaper?”

The harbinger of death.

“Why do you think I chose it?”

SEVENTEEN

IVY

I’d like to think that all people put great weight into the designs they mark their bodies with. That they choose something symbolic, that represents their passions, their personality, their struggles. I think Sebastian reached deep within himself when deciding on this design. Given the brief glimpse into his past that he just allowed me, I’m beginning to wonder exactly how dark it is in there.

The second the question left my lips, the tension in his body rippled beneath my fingertips. I hit a nerve. That’s never my goal, and it’s why I’ve always stuck to small talk and ambiguous yes and no answers when conversation gets too personal.

I pause for a second to wipe the ink away. There’s no way to answer his question without making it sound like I think he’s fucked-up.

“I’m starving. I’m gonna order pizza. You want some?”

“I could eat.” As if on cue, his stomach growls obnoxiously in my ear, making me smile. “And you need a rest, too.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s because you’re stubborn.”

I smile. “I’ll have it delivered to our back door in fifteen minutes. I know the guy working tonight.” If I’m going to tolerate Fez, I can at least get something out of the deal. “What do you want on it?”

“Don’t care. Just no tomatoes of any kind.”

“No tomatoes of any kind?” I frown, pulling away from my work to look over my shoulder at his face. “You do know what pizza is, right?”

He lifts his head to look at me.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m joking,” he confirms with a playful smirk.

I climb off the table and, peeling off one glove, hit Fez’s number in my contacts list. Just like that, we’ve veered back into more comfortable territory. We’re also back to flirting.

The moment I open the back door and see Fez’s face, I regret ordering pizza from Pasquale’s.

“Yo, yo, yo! Here’s da za!” He holds up a medium-size pizza that can usually feed me for three days, but I’m guessing Sebastian has a much bigger appetite than I do.

I hand him a twenty. “Thanks, Fez. Keep the change.”

I’m hoping he takes the hint.

Fez never takes the hint. “So . . . you chillin’ tonight?”

“Doing a friend’s ink. We’re just taking a quick break to eat before we get back into it. We have another few hours or so to go.”

“Damn! You savage! A’right. Well, ima hang in here, then.” He attempts to step in but I block him.

“Sorry. This isn’t the kind of night for hanging out.” I can only imagine what Sebastian would think of Fez.

He snorts, like I made a joke, but when I don’t move, he finally clues in. “Serio?”

I heave a sigh of exasperation. “Fez! You’re thirty-five! Stop trying to talk like a fifteen-year-old half-wit. You don’t sound cool. You sound like an idiot!”

He frowns. “You be trippin’, gurl.”

“Fuck. I give up,” I mutter, shaking my head at him. There’s just no point having this conversation.