315 The Property Of Siren Y.L. (1/2)

Her hand unknowingly stretched, her cold fingers made contact with his sizzling hot skin in his contrast and landed on the diagonal vertical mark following the whole length of his back. She traced it and he had never felt more intimate before. She was caressing his soul through the scars.

Closing his eyes he relished in the feeling of her near him. She was his equilibrium for sanity, she was the leverage balancing his humility and beast. She was Queen of his heart.

She wanted to hug him and kiss his scars but the thought of some other darling out there held her rooted to her soil. But these scars, they were…

You wouldn't even realize they were there if you weren't looking for them. In her case, if you weren't this familiar with them. It was like she had done this, the more she looked, the more the thought was convincing in her head.

”It is my handiwork but…” She quizzically furrowed her brows, then firmly stated, ”But I didn't do it! If I did, I would remember the King of the Underworld owe me.” Her voice was strained though, she was trying her best to keep it firm.

No, she never would have forgotten him if she ever met him. Most importantly wouldn't he recognize her? It was a crazy thought. Very scarce but there were chances of a man to have copied her handiwork.

”You would say so.” He murmured in a neutral tone under his breath, if she heard him she gave no reaction to his statement.

Without turning to face her he brought his hand on the back of his shoulder and with a little pressure ripped the skin away. She gasped at the sight but before she could stop him her eyes landed on the skin beneath it…

It took her a second to realize that it was a prosthetics skin cover and what was beneath it had her breath hitching.

In bold Italic calligraphed writing was tattooed her ownership of the act.

'The Property Of

Siren Y.L.'

Her mouth turned dry and her hands shivered. It was her writing the strokes were enough trademark to call off her bluff. She froze in her place and blood ran cold. She did it...

Now a memory spiked like a thorn in her heart nearly stopping it: The night was dark and she was too drunk to tell between stars and headlights. But her fuzzy mind still had its instinct sharp to detect any sign of danger.

Those days she worked in a tattoo parlor because she wanted to keep a low profile as her adopted father and Grandfather were hunting her to put her head on a spike. After her shift, she had decided to hit a private party of a member for the alcohol of course. She would rather prefer something private but she wasn't old enough then.

Stumbling and trembling in the cold night, she had decided to trash in an alley where she wouldn't be noticed till someone came for her. The dark alley was quiet but she saw a figure trashed on the floor. Bloodied and Morbid.

Against her better judgment, she had decided to check it, not for sympathy but for the sake of curiosity.

Vividly she could recall a handsome injured man passed out on his back. Passed out, because she could see his chest moving up and down in a rhythm.

The Wars' waste... and the only survivor, if he survives that is.