Chapter 272: The Tattoo Shop

Vivian’s POV

In a sudden flash, Zahliver’s hand shot out and grabbed mine, yanking my arms down along with the hem of my lavender dress and tugging the fabric firmly back into its proper place. Then he jabbed his finger aggressively at the dashboard radio, cutting the music off so abruptly that it felt like all the air had been violently sucked right out of the car. His broad chest rose and fell heavily as if he had just sprinted a full mile, and when he finally peeked over at me sideways, I gave him the most dramatic, tragic pout I could possibly manage.

He whipped his gaze straight back to the road as if I were a dangerous wild animal which, let us be completely honest, I totally was.

The second the traffic light turned green, he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal like the vehicle had just personally insulted his ancient ancestors.

We sped down the open road at a velocity that made me raise a questioning eyebrow. A few minutes later, he turned the steering wheel sharply and brought the car to a sudden, smooth stop.

Right in front of... a tattoo shop?

I blinked my eyes in sheer disbelief.

Seriously?

I did not even wait for him to politely come around and open my passenger door like he usually did. I pushed the door open, stepped out onto the sidewalk on my own, and stood there frowning at the storefront while Zahliver made an amused, unbothered face behind me.

The building was tucked tightly between two other quiet shops, small but visually eye-catching. The front windows were filled with intricately inked designs and beautifully framed sketches, looking almost like an art gallery hidden behind protective glass. The place looked both wonderfully worn and brand new at the same time featuring dark wooden walls with rich, natural textures, large windows framed in stark black metal, and a front door that looked as if it had been pulled straight off an old European cathedral. The heavy wood was carved deeply with swirling patterns and sharp geometric edges, but there was a glaring problem: there was no doorknob in sight anywhere on the surface.

My brows drew tightly together. My confusion only deepened by the second.

A tattoo shop? What on earth was he planning to do in there?

Zahliver’s warm fingers curled firmly around mine as he gently guided me across the empty street toward the mysterious shop entrance.

"Uh, Zahliver? What exactly are we doing here?" I asked, dragging my heels just a little bit against the pavement as I struggled to keep up with his long, confident stride.

Me and sharp needles? Definitely not a good combination. Ever. I glanced quickly around the neighborhood, hoping and praying silently that we were heading into literally anything else on earth besides what I was currently dreading. A cozy knitting store? Cute and safe. A little pet shop? Adorable. A candy shop? Yes, please, sign me up. A medical pharmacy? God, absolutely no way.

"What do you think we are doing?" he tossed casually over his shoulder without slowing his pace.

My panicked mind scrambled frantically for a logical explanation.

"Have you secretly always wanted to learn how to knit sweaters, but you did not want to be judged for it by the pack, so you desperately need me here for moral support?" My voice shot up a few desperate octaves, full-blown panic tightening sharply around my throat.

He stopped walking altogether. Slowly, he turned his tall body around to face me. One of his dark brows arched high up on his forehead while those sharp, brilliant blue eyes glimmered with heavy amusement the kind of look that clearly screamed, Even if that wildly absurd theory were true, no one on this earth would ever dare laugh at me and live to tell about it.

I blinked up at him blankly. "So... I take it that is a solid no to the knitting lessons?"

"That is a definitive no to knitting," he confirmed with a soft huff. Then, lowering his tone into something much gentler, he added, "Relax, Vivian."

His warm thumb brushed softly over the back of my hand in a slow, calming stroke, and I forced myself to take a deep, steadying breath to lower my heart rate. We came to a complete stop outside a heavy door painted in solid, blacked-out tones. It did not look like a regular retail entrance at all, which only added a whole new layer of suspicion to my racing mind.

"How are we even supposed to open thi Oh." I abruptly shut my mouth as he let go of my hand, crouched down low to the pavement, and reached for a nearly invisible metal handle I had completely missed in the shadows. He lifted the heavy door upward instead of pulling it open sideways, sliding it vertically above our heads into the wall. He tilted his dark head toward the dark opening, silently motioning for me to go inside first.

I hesitated for a second, glancing up at him once more, then stepped cautiously across the threshold.

The indoor air was filled with the soft thrum of low background music and the faint, unmistakable electric buzz of professional tattoo machines. It was a waiting area lit with dim, atmospheric lighting, with each wall painted a completely different deep, moody color. Shades of midnight blue, forest green, rich violet, and a burnished gold-yellow surrounded us like mood lighting given physical form.

Standing behind the polished wooden front desk was a tall, dark-skinned man sporting full tattooed sleeves and a gleaming silver nose ring. His beard was long and impeccably well-groomed, giving him a distinctly wise and rugged vibe, though he could not have been more than his mid-thirties. A sudden, random dozen questions about his daily beard maintenance routine popped directly into my head before I quickly shook them away.

The sharp, familiar scent of fresh tattoo ink, cold metal, medical disinfectant, and faint copper hit my senses all at once. My stomach flipped over uneasily, but I forcefully pulled my focus inward and dulled my hyper-sensitive sense of smell to cope.

Several pack wolves were lounging casually on the dark leather couches near the corner, quietly flipping through heavy design magazines. They all glanced up at the sound of the door opening. When they suddenly realized who had just stepped into the shop, their eyes widened in instant recognition. I offered them a small, polite smile. Being openly stared at wherever I went was quickly becoming a bizarre daily ritual. Would I ever actually get used to it?

I felt Zahliver’s solid presence close right up behind me just before his broad chest pressed lightly against my back. His warm hands came to rest reassuringly on my shoulders, gently nudging me forward toward the man waiting behind the counter.

The bearded man straightened up to his full height with a wide, welcoming grin and extended his hand out in greeting.

"Alpha, it is good to see you again. And happy birthday, Luna," he added respectfully, stepping over to do the traditional manly arm-clasp and shoulder-pat routine with Zahliver.

"Hey there, Mero," Zahliver greeted him back with a respectful nod of his head.

"Thank you," I replied, feeling quite surprised that he even knew it was my birthday. Then again, Zahliver had probably mentioned it to him beforehand... or maybe even sent a custom gift. Now my curiosity was spiking. Were we talking custom tattoo designs? Piercings? Or something completely ridiculous and impossible to ever return?

Some of the wolves sitting on the couches were still watching us closely as if we were walking pack folklore. And honestly, looking at it from their perspective, maybe we were. Would that lingering feeling of being an outsider ever truly fade away?

"Eddie is completely ready for you two whenever you want to head on back," Mero said, stepping aside smoothly and motioning toward a dark hallway door as Zahliver gave a curt, acknowledging nod.

Wait a minute. What?

Panic suddenly set in like a wave of ice water. I spun around to face Zahliver, my eyes wide with alarm. "Zahliver "

He did not give me a single chance to finish my sentence or object. "Come on, let us go," he said smoothly, taking my hand and leading me firmly toward the black hallway door to the left, guiding me gently forward without leaving any room for argument.

The second we stepped foot inside the private back room, my eyes instantly latched onto the stark, blindingly white leather chair that looked like it had been stolen straight out of a dentist’s office or worse, a sterile surgical operating room. It looked entirely too cold, too long, and far too clinical.

And then I saw them.

Neatly arranged rows of sterile metal needles glinting menacingly under a harsh strip of overhead fluorescent light.

Oh, hell no.