**Chapter 6: Session Three**

The first time Maddox touched my inner arm, I thought my breath would catch and refuse to return. But this was session three. I knew what was coming. I’d known it since we first sat down at the steel table in his studio, when he’d traced the design across my skin with a black marker, his thumb lingering just a fraction too long against my pulse point. He didn’t rush. He never rushed with me. He worked in measured strokes, each movement precise, deliberate, like he was mapping something sacred.

The inner arm. The most sensitive place on my body. Where skin is thin, nerves run close to the surface, and every touch feels like a confession.

I lay back on the padded chair, the cool plastic of the armrests pressing into my forearms. The studio was quiet except for the low hum of the ventilation system and the soft click of Maddox’s machine being assembled. The air smelled of antiseptic, fresh tape, and the deep, clean scent of him—cedar, leather, something darker that clung to my skin long after he left. I watched his hands as he prepped the station. They were always steady. Calloused. Scarred. But when they touched me, there was a different rhythm. A carefulness. A reverence that made my chest ache.

“Skin’s still tender from last time,” he murmured, not looking up as he wiped the area with alcohol. The liquid was cold against my flesh. I flinched. His fingers paused, then pressed a little firmer, grounding me. “You gonna flinch?”

“Only if you make me,” I said, voice quieter than I intended.

He paused. The cotton swab hovered. Then his eyes lifted, dark and steady, locking onto mine. “I won’t.”

He wasn’t promising to be gentle. He was promising to be present. And that was somehow more terrifying.

The needle kissed my skin, and I bit down on my lower lip. A hot line of pain, sharp and precise, threading through muscle and memory. Maddox’s hand was a solid weight against my shoulder, grounding me without crowding. His thumb brushed the inside of my elbow, right where the vein pulsed, and I felt the tremor in my own limbs respond. It wasn’t just the sting of the needle. It was the awareness of him. The fact that he was holding me in place. That he was watching me breathe. That he knew exactly when I was about to snap.

“Breathe,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Don’t fight it.”

I did. Each pass of the needle was a slow unraveling. The inner arm didn’t forgive hesitation. It demanded stillness, surrender. And I was learning to give it to him.

He worked in silence for twenty minutes, the machine humming like a steady heartbeat. I watched his hands. They were always steady, but there was a tension in them when they touched me. Not anger. Not frustration. Something heavier. Something that had waited too long to be named. His jaw was set. His shoulders were squared. But his fingers… his fingers were careful. Deliberate. Like he was handling something that could break if he pressed too hard.

“You’re gripping the chair,” he said finally, not breaking rhythm.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Wren.”

The way he said my name—low, edged, just barely above a whisper—made my stomach drop. I exhaled, forced my fingers to uncurl. He noticed. Of course he did. Maddox noticed everything. He noticed the way I held my breath when the needle hit a nerve. He noticed the slight tremor in my thighs. He noticed when I was lying to him. And he never let me hide behind pretty words.

“Why this part?” I asked, voice thin over the hum. “The inside. Why here?”

He didn’t stop. The needle never stopped. But his hand shifted, just slightly, angling his weight so I wouldn’t have to bear my own. “Because it’s where people hide their pulses,” he said. “Where they keep what they don’t show. It’s intimate. It’s vulnerable. You don’t tattoo it unless you’re ready to bleed a little.”

“I’m bleeding,” I murmured.

“Yeah.” A pause. The machine dipped. “You always have.”

The words hit me like a physical force. I stopped breathing for a second. The needle moved on its own. I focused on the sound, the sensation, the steady pressure of his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to ask what he meant. I wanted to ask why he saw me so clearly. But the pain was sharpening, threading up my bicep, and I had to stay present. Had to stay still. Had to let him work.

He worked through the next hour like a man possessed. Focused. Intense. Possessive in a way that didn’t feel like control. It felt like protection. Like he was claiming the space around me, the air I breathed, the skin I offered. Every time I shifted, his hand was there, steady and sure. Every time I gasped, his voice was lower, rougher, grounding me back to the table. Every time I closed my eyes, his thumb found my jaw, tilting my face back to his.

“Look at me,” he’d say. “Keep your eyes open. Don’t hide from it.”

And I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Because when I looked at him, I saw something raw. Something tired. Something that had been locked behind his ribs for years, waiting for the right moment to crack open.

“I had a brother,” he said finally, voice stripped down to something bare. He didn’t stop the machine. He didn’t break rhythm. But his words came slow, measured, like he was pulling them from a place that had been sealed shut. “Older. Twelve years. Taught me how to hold a needle before I knew what it meant. Showed me that pain could be controlled. That you could shape it into something that looked like art. That you could burn something down and still make something beautiful from the ashes.” He exhaled, a sharp, ragged sound. “He died in a house fire. Three years ago. I was twenty-four. He was thirty-six. I was in the other room. Heard him call for me. Couldn’t get back to him.”

The words hit me like a physical force. I stopped breathing for a second. The needle moved on its own. I focused on the sound, the sensation, the steady pressure of his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to pull away. I wanted to hide. But he held me. And I stayed.

“I didn’t save him,” Maddox continued, voice rough now, barely audible over the machine. “I grabbed his dog. Stood on the sidewalk while the fire ate everything else. The fire department said he went back for something. A photo album. His girl’s ring. Whatever it was, he didn’t make it out. And I… I couldn’t forgive myself for surviving. Couldn’t forgive myself for living with that silence in my chest for every day since.” He swallowed hard. “I stopped talking to people. Stopped letting them in. I told myself I was fine alone. That I didn’t need anyone. That I didn’t deserve anyone.”

His hand tightened on my shoulder. Just for a second. Then it relaxed. But the tremor in his fingers remained.

“I don’t tattoo for the money,” he said, voice dropping lower. “I don’t do it for the fame. I do it because when I’m focused, when I’m pressing steel into skin and watching it take shape… I’m not thinking about the fire. I’m not thinking about the smoke. I’m not thinking about the sound of his voice calling my name while I stood outside and did nothing.” He paused. The needle slowed. “It’s the only place where I can still control something. Where I can still make something beautiful out of what’s broken. Where I can prove to myself that I’m not just a guy who stood on a sidewalk and let his brother burn.”

I felt tears prick my eyes. Not from the pain. From the weight of it. The sheer, staggering vulnerability of it. And he was giving it to me. Right here. On the inside of my arm. Where I couldn’t hide it. Where I had to hold it.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. But his thumb pressed harder against my pulse, and for a second, I felt his breath catch. Just like mine.

The machine slowed. The final lines were being laid. The design was almost complete. A geometric lotus, wrapping around the inner curve of my arm, roots tangled into barbed wire, petals opening like a confession. It was perfect. It was mine. It was ours.

“Almost done,” he said, voice regaining its usual steel. But it was softer. Warmer. Like he’d been carrying something heavy and finally set it down. “Hold still.”

I did. I let him work. I let him finish. I let him clean the area with warm water and gauze, watching his fingers trace the fresh ink like he was memorizing it. Like he was claiming it. Like he was afraid I’d disappear if he looked away for too long.

Then he stepped back. The studio felt suddenly too large. Too quiet. I sat up slowly, wincing at the sting of new skin. He handed me a mirror.

“Look,” he said.

I did. The lotus was flawless. The shading was seamless. The barbed wire looked like it had been forged by hand. It was beautiful. It was alive.

“It’s perfect,” I breathed.

“It’s yours,” he said. Then, softer: “It’s mine to protect.”

I looked up at him. His eyes were dark. Hungry. But not in the way of a predator. In the way of someone who had found something rare and refused to let it slip through his fingers again.

I stood. My legs were shaky. My arm throbbed. But I was upright. I was whole.

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that I could smell the sweat, the ink, the sharp clean scent of his skin. His hands came up, one cradling my jaw, the other resting over my heart.

“You let me in,” he said, voice rough. “You let me see you break. You let me hold it. You don’t do that with just anyone.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“I’m not letting go,” he said. Not a question. A vow.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. Not at first. It was hungry, desperate, a collision of years of restraint and sudden release. His mouth crashed into mine, hard and sure, and I made a sound against his lips that I didn’t know I was capable of. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until my knees buckled and I had to brace against his chest. He caught me. Of course he did. He always caught me. His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the hard line of his arousal press against my stomach. I gasped into his mouth. He groaned.

But then he pulled back. Just enough to look at me. His eyes were blazing. His breath was uneven. His thumb brushed my bottom lip, tracing the swell.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low, edged with something raw. “Tell me and I will. Right now. Before I lose control.”

I didn’t hesitate. I pressed my forehead to his chest, felt the hard line of his heartbeat against my skin. “Don’t,” I whispered. “Please. Don’t stop.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it for years. Then he lifted me. Just like that. One arm under my knees, the other around my back, and he carried me to the small couch in the corner of the studio. The leather was cool, worn, smelling of dust and old cigarettes and him. He laid me down carefully, like I was made of glass. Like I was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

“Undress,” he said, voice rough. “All of it. I want to see you. All of you.”

I didn’t argue. I sat up, fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. He watched. Always watching. His eyes were dark, heavy, filled with something that made my stomach flutter. When the fabric fell away, he didn’t rush. He stepped closer, knelt beside the couch, and pressed a kiss to my collarbone. Then another. Then his mouth was on my breast, warm and open, and I arched into him with a gasp.

“Maddox—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my skin. “I’ve always got you.”

He pulled back, fingers moving to my belt. He undid it with practiced ease, then pushed my jeans and underwear down in one slow motion. I was bare. Completely bare. And he looked at me like I was a masterpiece. Like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, voice thick. “So open. So fucking vulnerable. And I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

I reached for him, fingers hooking into his belt buckle. He helped, stepping out of his pants, kicking them aside. When he was bare, I didn’t hesitate. My hand wrapped around him, and he groaned, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Wren—”

I stroked him. Slow at first. Then faster. He was hard, hot, thick, and every inch of him was focused on me. On my mouth, my hands, my skin. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark, heavy, completely mine.

I pushed him back against the cushions, straddling his hips. He caught my waist, fingers digging in, but didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Just held. Let me set the pace. Let me take what I needed.

I leaned down, pressing my mouth to his. This kiss was slower. Deeper. Sweeter. A promise. When I pulled back, I reached for the lube on the side table. He watched my hands, jaw tight.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” I said.

“It won’t be,” he said. “Not with you.”

I poured the oil into my palm, rubbed it over myself, then guided him to my entrance. He was huge. So big. I paused, breath hitching. His hand came up, cupped my jaw.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me, Wren. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I did. I held his gaze. And I lowered myself onto him.

The stretch was immediate. Intense. A sharp breath left me as he filled me, inch by inch, until I was seated fully on his lap, his length buried to the hilt. I was trembling. He was rigid. His hands were on my hips, thumbs pressing into my skin, but he didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. Just let me adjust. Let me breathe.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes,” I whispered. “God, yes.”

He exhaled. Then he moved. Slowly. Deliberately. A shallow roll of his hips, and I gasped. He stilled. Waited. I nodded. He moved again. Deeper. Slower. Matching my breath. Matching my pulse.

I leaned forward, pressing my chest against his. Our mouths met. Sweet. Desperate. When I pulled back, I looked down at him. His eyes were closed. His jaw was clenched. But his hands… his hands were stroking my back. His fingers tracing the lines of my spine. Like he was memorizing me. Like he was mapping me.

“I’m yours,” he murmured against my lips. “Completely. Utterly. Don’t ever doubt that.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I moved with him. Slow at first. Then faster. Deeper. Each thrust was a promise. Each gasp was a confession. His hands slid up, one tangling