Chapter 2:
Lucas POV.
Days blurred together in Lucas's world—meetings, contracts, the endless grind of billable hours. He was a corporate lawyer, the kind people paid obscene amounts of money to fix their problems. He wore his success like armor: tailored suits, expensive watches, a penthouse that overlooked the city. But none of it mattered when the lights went out.
He couldn't stop thinking about her. Elena. The way she'd looked at him—like she saw straight through the façade. He'd tried to drown her memory in work, in the numbing comfort of routine, but it was no use. Her presence lingered, sharp and insistent, a splinter he couldn't dig out.
He found her again, or maybe she found him. At a gallery opening, her work splashed across the walls—raw, chaotic, alive. The crowd was a mix of art students, collectors, and the odd socialite, but Elena stood apart, a living contradiction to the polished scene. Lucas stood in front of a canvas that looked like a wound—deep red slashes, black spirals, something almost violent in its honesty. He felt something shift inside him, a tightness in his chest he hadn't realized was there.
"You like it?" she asked, appearing at his side, her voice low and amused.
He didn't turn. "It's... intense."
She laughed, the sound rough and genuine. "That's the point. Art should hurt a little."
He glanced at her, at the ink crawling up her forearm, the way she held herself—defiant, unashamed. "So should life," he said.
She studied him, head tilted. "You want a tattoo?"
He hesitated. He'd never considered it—his body was another suit, another mask, something to keep immaculate for the boardroom and the courtroom.
But the idea lodged itself in his brain, thorn-sharp.
"What would you give me?" he asked, voice softer than he intended.
She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Depends what you're willing to show me."
Their sessions became a ritual. He'd come to her studio after hours, the air thick with the scent of ink and antiseptic. She demanded honesty as payment—stories, confessions, the truth beneath the surface.
He gave her pieces of himself, one session at a time. She inked them onto his skin, each line a scar, each color a memory.
Sometimes, he wondered if she was saving him or destroying him.
Elena's POV.
Lucas Kane was nothing like her usual clients. He carried tension in his shoulders like a second skin, his words clipped and precise, his eyes always calculating. The first time he walked into her studio, he looked out of place—too polished, too careful, like he was afraid to touch anything for fear of leaving a mark.
But Elena could see the cracks. She'd seen enough broken people to recognize the signs: the way he flinched when she asked about pain, the way his gaze lingered on the art that hurt the most. He wanted to be changed, even if he didn't know it yet.
She set the rules from the start. "You want a tattoo from me, you give me something real. No bullshit. I don't do pretty pictures for people who want to hide."
He surprised her. He told her about his childhood, about the first time he realized love wasn't safe. About the man he'd loved and lost, about the emptiness that came after.
Sometimes he talked, sometimes he just sat in silence while she worked, but every session left a mark—on his skin, on her, too.
She chose the designs carefully. A broken compass on his ribs, for the years he'd spent lost. A phoenix on his shoulder, rising from ashes he wasn't sure he believed in. She watched the way he looked at them in the mirror, the way he traced the lines with his fingers like he was trying to remember who he was.
She knew what it meant for a man like him to let himself be marked. In her world, tattoos were badges of survival, declarations of identity. In his, they were still taboo—something to be hidden beneath a suit jacket, a secret rebellion against the world he'd built for himself. She wondered if he'd ever show them to anyone, or if they'd stay hidden, like everything else he cared about.
Sometimes, she caught him watching her as she worked, his expression unreadable. She wondered if he saw her as a savior or a threat. Maybe a little bit of both.
Lucas POV.
He started to notice the way people looked at him differently. In the office, he kept his new ink hidden, but sometimes a cuff would ride up, revealing a flash of color.
He could feel the curiosity, the judgment. The legal world was changing, but not fast enough for someone like him. Tattoos were still a risk—a mark of rebellion, a challenge to the old order. He liked that, more than he cared to admit.
He realized he was addicted to the ritual. The sting of the needle, the intimacy of Elena's hands on his skin, the way she forced him to confront himself.
It was nothing like the rest of his life, where everything was controlled, predictable.
Here, he was raw, exposed. Here, he was real.
Sometimes, when the pain got to be too much, he'd close his eyes and let himself drift. He wondered if this was what freedom felt like.