It feels like I wake in the span of one breath.
I was sleeping the sleep of the dreamless, lost in the black nothing of unconsciousness. And now I’m here.
It was early when I went to bed, and now dawn is breaking beyond the windows.
While my eyes adjust, I hear someone else breathing.
So Dom did sleep in here last night.
Part of me wants to wake him up, just to disturb him. But the other part of me wants him to sleep for the rest of the morning.
I push myself up, and my finger throbs.
Must’ve slept funny.
Carefully, I climb out of bed and try to blink my vision clear as I get closer to the windows.
Whatever floor we’re on is high. Like scarily high. But this view is beautiful.
The city is coming to life below us and just past the buildings.
I inhale and place my palms on the glass.
Lake Michigan is right there, glistening in the sunrise.
I could get used to waking up to this view.
The thought stops me short, and I shake my head.
And then I freeze.
What the…
My hands are still pressed against the window and… And…
I lift my left hand off the glass.
That can’t be.
I reach out with my right hand and touch the tender skin of my left ring finger.
“How the hell…?”
This motherfucker.
I slowly turn and face the bed. Where Dom is lying awake, hands behind his head, staring at me.
I hold my hand out, fingers up, between us.
“Did you seriously tattoo my whole fucking finger?”
Where my wedding ring briefly was, is Dominic’s name in black ink, circling the digit. Above that, where a band might be, is Dominic’s name again. But it doesn’t stop there. Above that, between the next set of knuckles, are two more Dominics, stacked one on top of the other.
I pull my hand closer to my face so I can read the last ring of letters when I realize it’s different.
Between the last knuckle and the bottom of my fingernail are the words Til Death.
“I hate you.” I don’t raise my voice, but it still fills the room.
Dominic shakes his head once. “No, you don’t.”
“I do.” I’m still looking at my finger.
“You want to. But you don’t have hate in you, Angel.”
I hold my hand back out, turning my narrowed eyes on Dom. “Seriously, Dominic. What the hell is this?”
“I asked you if you’d wear my ring, and you said no.”
I wave my hand around. “Are you fucking insane?” This time I do shout. “You can’t just tattoo me! And my whole finger? What is wrong with you?”
Dominic flips the covers off and climbs out of bed.
He strides toward me. “I asked you and you said no.”
“Is that your argument?” My eyes widen. “If the question had been will you wear my ring, or would you prefer I tattoo your whole-ass finger like a psycho, my answer would’ve been a little different.”
“Your answer was honest.”
“Dominic,” I snap. “You cannot just tattoo me.”
“You. Are. My. Wife.” He punctuates each word with a step, stopping directly before me. “And people need to know that. If I can’t trust you to wear a ring, I’ll mark you myself for everyone to see.”
My mouth opens and closes.
This man is unreal.
“You couldn’t just put your name once?” I ask, knowing I’d still be pissed about that. But the whole finger…?
“Four.” He leans closer. “One to replace every other dick you’ve touched.”
I just blink at him.
Every dick I’ve touched?
When did I tell him how many men I’ve slept with?
“Vegas.” Dom answers my silent question.
“When did…”
“After our wedding ceremony, when you were begging me to let you come, you were also answering any question I asked you. You really need to learn how to watch your drink.”
“You are such a—” I bite off my sentence and shake my hand between us. “Four men! You did this because, at the age of twenty-five, I’ve been with a total of four men.”
Dom crosses his arms. “They’ve touched what’s mine.”
“Yours?” I scoff. “You tricked me into this. Into all of this.”
“Doesn’t make you any less mine.”
“And what about you?” I hiss, jabbing my pointer finger into his chest. “How many vaginas have you stuck your stupid cock in? I bet it’s more than fucking four.”
The side of his mouth tips up. “It’s more than fucking four.”
I clench my jaw. “I’m going to kill you.”
Dominic takes a step back. “Many have tried.”
I look back down at my hand.
It’s sore.
And having my lying husband’s name tattooed so many times on my body is tacky.
And it’s absolutely the most insane thing I could possibly think of someone doing to someone else.
And I hate it.
I do.
I would never do something like this.
But—and I can hardly even believe I’m thinking this—I’ve always wanted a tattoo. I’m just too frugal. And I’m not decisive enough. And I never wanted to deal with the pain.
The neon red flag finally unfurls in the center of my brain.
“Wait…” I lift my gaze to my husband.
Dom stops halfway to the door, his back to me. “What?”
“How did you even do this? Did you drug me again?”
Dominic turns to face me. “I wasn’t going to let you feel the pain.”
My outraged retort withers in my throat.
What sort of answer is that?
I press my fingertips into my temples. “I can’t believe I have to say this,” I grumble. “You can’t drug me again. That can’t be healthy.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Great. The man I married knows how to drug people. How comforting.
“And you can’t tattoo me again,” I tell him.
“I don’t have any plans to do either.”
My hands drop. “Dom, that’s not an answer.”
“I prefer you calling me Dominic.”
“I prefer you when you aren’t drugging me and scratching your name into my skin.”
Dominic’s jaw ticks, then he tries to change the topic. “I moved your clothes into the closet.”
“Dom.” I stomp my bare foot. “I don’t want your name tattooed on my finger.”
“Little late for that, Angel.” He turns and heads for the door. “Go get ready. And put on something black.”
“Dom—”
Before he steps through, he looks at me over his shoulder. “We’re going to a funeral.”
His words stop my tirade.
A funeral?
