Chapter 19 Touching his tattoos
Veronica's POV:
Never in a million years did I assume that Maximilian Ashford, who flaunted the typical bad-boy image could have such a tragedy behind his heart.
The picture of him in my mind shifted entirely. I could almost see it, the eleven-year-old boy he once was... trapped in a wreck of twisted metal and shattered glass, hearing his mother’s screams... and the smell of gasoline thick in the air.
How small he must have felt. How powerless.
He did really look very sweet in his childhood photo... but here he was, all grown, reckless... covering his body that was once innocent with tattoos.
My eyes drifted before I realized it, tracing the faint lines across his torso.
The tattoos that ran down his ribs weren’t random or decorative; they seemed to follow something... faint, jagged shapes that could only be healed wounds.
Were they… cover-ups for his scars?
I didn’t mean to stare at him, but my gaze lingered longer than it should have.
I was studying the man who everyone called irresponsible rebel, and all I could see was the art he’d built over his pain.
Max caught my gaze and smirked, his signature grin slipping back into place... that same teasing smile he gave when he was playful.
“Yeah, yeah...,” he said, dragging out the words with lazy sarcasm. “I get it. The desperation’s mutual. I’m too hot to handle, I know that... you can admit it.”
“Wha—no! I wasn’t—” I stammered, heat flooding my cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”
He laughed softly, running a hand through his dark hair, blue eyes sparkling with mischief again. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just trying to make the vibe a little lighter. You look like you’re about to cry for me.”
And maybe I was.
Because the truth was, I did feel like crying. Not for him as the man he’d become, but for the boy he once was... the one who never got the chance to heal properly.
He sighed then, stretching as if shaking off the heaviness of our conversation. “Alright,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Since you’re already staring like I’m some wax doll, I might as well give you the full show.”
"What?" I gaped. "Max, you don’t have to—”
But before I could finish, he was already standing, unbuttoning his shirt one clasp at a time.
The motion was casual, careless... but there was reason he was doing this, as though a part of him wanted to be seen.
Wanted someone to finally look past his swagger and see him.
When he pulled the shirt off, and turned his back to me to show off his tattooed chiseled body, my breath hitched in my throat.
His back was a masterpiece... dark ink sprawling across his muscle and skin like fire captured mid-motion.
A phoenix, wings unfurled, rising through shards of shattered glass that shimmered faintly under the lamplight. Each shard was jagged, almost painful to look at, yet beautiful... the kind of beauty born from agony, not just vanity. The wings stretched across his shoulders, feathered and fierce, hiding faint ridges of scars beneath them.
The closer I looked, the more I noticed the detail of it... hidden faces within the smoke of the wings, a woman’s eyes drawn subtly between the feathers, watching over him. His mother.
I couldn’t speak. My throat felt heavy, my heart was felt even heavier than that.
He turned slightly, catching my expression, his voice dropping to something quiet... so unlike him.
“I got it done when I was sixteen,” he said. “Every line covers something I didn’t want to see in the mirror anymore.”
Everything around me stilled. There was no arrogance in him now.
No sarcasm. Just truth.
Then it got clear... his tattoos weren’t rebellion at all. They were survival.
I nodded slowly, my voice barely a whisper.
“It’s beautiful, Max.”
Looking over his shoulder, all while showing his back to me, Max gave me a crooked smile, the faintest one I’d ever seen from him. “Yeah… that’s what the artist said too.”
But his blue eyes said otherwise. His eyes said it still hurts.
My legs seemed to move on their own, closing the distance between us before I could think twice.
The quiet hum of the sea waves outside felt miles away now as I got closer to him, and — all I could hear was the slow, steady rhythm of Max’s breathing.
Without saying a word to him, I lifted my hand and let my fingers hover just above his back... tracing the air first, afraid to touch his tattoos... something that felt almost sacred.
Then, gently, I let my skin meet his.
The moment I touched him, I felt the slightest shudder go through him. His shoulders stiffened beneath my fingertips, the muscles in his back tightening like he was trying to hold himself together.
“Easy,” I whispered... though I wasn’t sure if I was saying it to him or to myself.
My hand slid lower down his skin, following the dark lines of ink that was colouring his pale skin... and then over the phoenix’s wings... then down the edges of the feathers.
Beneath the smooth layer of skin and ink, I could feel them — thin, uneven ridges that didn’t belong to the tattoo.
They were his scars. Dozens of them, all faint but real, like a forgotten story was etched into flesh.
Each one felt different... some sharp and short, others long and shallow... but all of them told the same tale: his pain endured in silence.
My throat tightened as I traced the path of a deep line near his shoulder blade, where the ink was curved perfectly to hide the wound beneath it.
He let out a sharp breath, like a low hiss escaping between his teeth... probably out of half pain, half memory. “My shoulder blade scar... that alone still stings sometimes,” he murmured, his voice rougher now... quieter.
I froze, my palm resting flat against his warm skin.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not sure why I was apologizing.
Maybe because touching those scars made me feel his pain more than words ever could.