Enchanted Ink

 Copyright © 2023 by Robin LynnOriginal Typeset and Technical Formatting by Dallan Styne (https://twitter.com/dallanstyne)Final Typeset and Technical Formatting by Tabitha (https://twitter.com/your_weary_head)Cover Art by Gio Guimaraes (https://artstation.com/gio_guimaraes)Cover Design and Formatting: Katie Marlin (https://ko-fi.com/makingitupaswegopod)Tattoo Icon Image by dgim-studio on FreepikDevelopmental Editor: Jen Coin (https://twitter.com/coinofstone)Copy Editors: Jen Coin, Ilana Baron Knudsen, Nicola Carey, Bex GowanVersion: Spicy All rights reserved; no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission from the publisher and / or author (except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976). Idle Winter PressPortland, Oregonhttp://IdleWinter.com ISBN-13: 978-1945687150 (Idle Winter Press) Acknowledgments “If you always do what you’ve always done,you’ll always get what you’ve always got.” — Anonymous Thank you to the entire Clubhouse for believing in and supporting me. To the GISHcord’s neverending support & encouragement, late-night company, and specifically, Kailss for the vibe checks. Thank you to Dallan & Tabitha for the formatting, Katie for the cover design, Gio for the beautiful art and your generosity, Valerie for the merch + manic energy, and to all of my editors, especially Jen, who has been there from the beginning and is always the reason my work makes it across the finish line. Love you all. —Wings Prologue The roar of the thunderstorm outside is deafening, intermittent booms of thunder rattling the window panes in their frame. The angry cacophony feels a little heavy-handed, even to a man who believes that the Universe matches energy, but under the circumstances, Ashton can’t spare the mental bandwidth it would take to dwell on that. Whitaker is laughing. Leaning casually against the sleek paneling of the hallway, his tattoo machine is still dripping color onto the table full of used equipment behind him. He’s effectively blocking the way out, and he’s laughing . At almost six feet exactly, Whitaker is scarcely two inches shorter than Ashton, but right now his presence feels giant, and despite his own more muscular stature, Ashton feels small. Licking dry lips, Ashton’s gaze darts briefly over to that table and the machine laying placidly on its side across the instrument tray, its needle pointed firmly in his direction. It’s silent, rendered powerless at the moment, but that doesn’t matter. Motionless and harmless though it currently may be, the once-familiar apparatus nevertheless feels like a weapon. Like a threat . Half-naked and alone on this emotional rollercoaster, Ashton has never been more vulnerable, and it’s distressing. He’s sweating. Droplets gather on his forehead, one breaking away to track down over his temple and cheek as a lock of damp, dark hair falls into his line of vision. Against his thighs, both of his hands flex with rage and despair, blood boiling in his veins. Pain and anger throb in the space behind his eyes and heat radiates in waves from his face, undoubtedly flushed red with humiliation. He can’t even bring himself to stare into the mirror and fully absorb what’s been done to him—this is truly his own version of hell. “Oh, come off it, Ashes. I’ll fix it up then, if you’re going to be so pissy.” Whitaker’s words don’t match his tone, even discounting the sneery English accent, and the laugh that follows his would-be promise lays bare his lack of sincerity. Even his demeanor, the casual way he pushes a palm through his floppy, platinum-blonde hair or the way his manicured nails tap his chin feels dismissive, irreverent. “It’s very you, though, you have to admit.” A dramatic boom shakes the bones of the shop as a bolt of lightning snaps outside, casting a brief, eerie glow across Whitaker’s face, courtesy of the giant windows facing the street. His gray eyes flash dangerously. The sight sends a chill down Ashton’s spine, making his pulse race and turning him breathless as he struggles to cope with reality. Ashton’s mind races right along with his heart as various pieces of the puzzle continue falling into place. Everything suddenly makes so much sense— the waiting until no one else was present, Whitaker refusing to allow him to check on the progress, and of course, this strange, late-night session that was never about clients and preserving business hours in the first place. Ashton should’ve known. He should’ve guessed . He tries to make himself look into the mirror. To digest the situation, to see that he is still there, buried underneath the problem. He manages to fixate briefly on the familiar planes of his chest, the bulky curve of his thighs, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the messy shock of dark hair atop his head. To ground himself in his own familiar blue eyes. He tries to look for long enough to at least kill the magic, to settle the enchanted ink—to put the charm away so that it isn’t just out there, adding fuel to Whitaker’s entertained fire. It’s painful to try, though, and he finds himself frozen in place. Hell is definitely the right word. Being forced to confront his worst apparent mistakes and his misplaced trust in this way is overwhelming, it’s too much. Ashton’s chest feels horrifically tight as the edges of the mangled design catch his peripheral vision, and he squeezes his eyes shut so as not to see. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to harness the magic for himself, to contain the charm, and to shut it down. Exhale, he tells himself, once it’s over. Breathe. In and out. Just get out. Blinking back tears, Ashton stares up at the ugly popcorn ceiling for a handful of seconds, focusing on the rumble of thunder and the downpour of rain in order to center himself. “Ashes, darling, just remember—” He moves. Without glancing Whitaker’s way or acknowledging his presence at all, Ashton brushes past to yank his discarded t-shirt over his head and grabs his coat from the rack. He slings his work bag over