Tattooed in Blood and Clumsiness

Tattooed in Blood and Clumsiness


The night's chaos finally drifts away, replaced by a kind of exhausted calm that settles in my bones like a bad hangover mixed with the lingering effects of supernatural makeout sessions. I'm curled up under my blanket fortress, Rowan's mouth still ghosting over mine in my mind like some kind of erotic poltergeist that refuses to be exorcised, that damn bite lingering like a secret I can't quite share without admitting I let a vampire turn me into a teenage hormone disaster.

His scent—dark, woodsy, and a little like trouble wrapped in leather and bad decisions—clings to my sheets and my skin like the world's most inappropriate cologne. It's annoying and addictive all at once, like chocolate that you know is going to give you acne but you eat it anyway because life is short and vampires are hot.

I think about him until my eyelids get too heavy to stay open, replaying every second of that kiss, every touch of his hands, every promise of what might happen "next time."

My dreams are full of gray eyes and dangerous smiles and the phantom sensation of fangs against my lip.

\---

Morning light filters through the curtains like a rude awakening, sneaking past the heavy blinds like a nosy neighbor who doesn't understand the concept of privacy or the fact that some people need more than four hours of sleep to function like human beings.

My phone buzzes on the bedside table with the persistence of a very annoying mosquito, but I ignore it because the only messages I want right now are from a certain vampire, and the chances of that happening are approximately zero since he seems to specialize in dramatic entrances and exits rather than normal teenage communication.

The only thing I want right now is a shower—and maybe a time machine that erases last night's mistakes, or at least gives me a do-over where I don't faint at the sight of vampire anatomy and manage to be sexy instead of perpetually confused.

I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, still wearing yesterday's exhausted expression and yesterday's cartoon muffin pajama pants, which have somehow become even more wrinkled and ridiculous overnight. I look like I've been wrestling with my sheets and losing badly.

I flick on the light and immediately regret it because bathroom lighting was clearly invented by someone who hated teenagers and wanted them to feel bad about their life choices. I push my hair back from my face, preparing to assess the damage from yesterday's emotional roller coaster, then catch my reflection in the mirror.

And freeze.

There, faint but unmistakable, right on my chin like some kind of supernatural hickey, is a mark.

Not just any mark. A tattoo. A tiny, swirling design that definitely, absolutely, 100% wasn't there yesterday. It's delicate but clearly intentional—a permanent signature inked into my skin like a really bad tattoo from a bar mitzvah gone wrong, except instead of getting drunk and making poor decisions with a tattoo gun, I apparently made poor decisions with a vampire.

My brain does a double take so hard I'm surprised it doesn't fall out of my skull.

Wait.

Rowan.

The bite.

The blood.

The mark.

The cosmic joke that is my life.

Holy hell, Rowan marked me.

I press a shaky finger to the tattoo, tracing the swirling lines like it might disappear if I ignore it long enough or maybe rub it off like a temporary tattoo from a cereal box.

Nope. Still there.

Still permanent.

Still proof that I am officially the worst werewolf daughter in the history of werewolf daughters.

A cold sweat breaks out down my spine, and my stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. This is the kind of cold sweat that usually precedes either vomiting or fainting, and I've already hit my quota for both this week.

"Oh, brilliant," I mutter to my reflection, which looks as horrified as I feel. "I'm officially his property now."

A wave of panic rushes through me like a tsunami of "oh shit oh shit oh shit." This is bad. Really bad. Like, do-I-have-to-tell-mom-and-dad-now bad. Like, am-I-stuck-with-this-vampire-for-life bad. Like, is-this-what-being-mated-actually-means-and-did-I-accidentally-agree-to-supernatural-marriage bad.

I lean closer to the mirror, studying the mark like maybe I can figure out how to explain this to my parents without them immediately organizing a vampire-hunting party with me as the bait.

The design is actually kind of beautiful, if you ignore the fact that it's basically a supernatural ankle monitor that advertises my terrible judgment to anyone who knows what they're looking at. It's all swirling lines and delicate curves that look almost Celtic, like something you'd see in an ancient manuscript about star-crossed lovers who definitely didn't end up happily ever after.

And before I can process it all, before I can figure out how to explain this latest disaster to my family, my foot catches the edge of the bath mat—the one I swore was in the perfect spot when I arranged it yesterday.

Physics takes over with the cruel efficiency of a natural disaster.

I go down like a sack of laundry thrown by someone with anger management issues.

My arms windmill frantically, trying to grab onto something, anything, that might save me from the inevitable collision with bathroom fixtures. My hand briefly makes contact with the shower curtain, which provides exactly zero support and instead makes a terrible ripping sound that probably means I'm about to owe my parents money for home repairs.

My head slams into the sink edge with a crack that sounds way worse than it feels—at first.

Stars explode behind my eyelids like I'm starring in my own personal fireworks show, and for a second, I'm certain I'm going to wake up with a concussion and some embarrassing viral video titled "Teenage Werewolf Falls Down in Bathroom Like an Idiot."

Blood immediately starts trickling down my temple like my head is a leaky faucet, warm and sticky and definitely going to stain the bath mat that I just fell over.

Great. Just great.

Perfect way to start the morning after having my first supernatural romantic encounter. Nothing says "mature, responsible mate material" like knocking yourself unconscious on bathroom furniture before 9 AM.

My wolf, who has been suspiciously quiet since last night, finally pipes up with what I can only describe as supernatural laughter. Apparently, even my own inner animal finds my clumsiness hilarious.

I lie there for a moment, sprawled on the bathroom floor like a crime scene outline, trying to assess whether I've done any permanent damage to my already questionable brain function.

The good news: I can still see, think, and feel embarrassed, which probably means no major head trauma.

The bad news: literally everything else about this situation.

"Julia? Are you okay? What was that noise?"

Dad's voice booms from the hallway like the voice of God, except God is probably disappointed in my life choices and also concerned about property damage.

Before I can attempt to get up or come up with a reasonable explanation for why I'm bleeding on the bathroom floor, he swings the door open without knocking because apparently, privacy is a luxury that disappears when you start making suspicious crashing sounds in the morning.

His eyes immediately widen when he sees me sprawled on the floor like I've been defeated by basic home fixtures, one hand clutching my head and probably looking like I've been attacked by the bathroom itself.

I groan, which is about the most dignified response I can manage while lying on the floor with blood dripping down my face. "I'm fine," I lie, which is the kind of lie that only works if the other person is deaf, blind, or in complete denial about the evidence of their own eyes.

His eyes flick down to the blood slowly dripping off my fingers, then back up to my face, horror written all over his usually stern features like he's watching a particularly tragic movie about teenagers who can't navigate basic living spaces without injuring themselves.

"Clumsy as always," he mutters, but there's affection in his voice as he crouches beside me and gently brushes a strand of blood-matted hair off my forehead. "You could have seriously hurt yourself."

I try to smile through the sting, which probably looks more like a grimace. "I know. I'm a graceful ballerina. A swan. Very elegant."

He doesn't laugh, which is probably fair since I'm currently proving the exact opposite of elegance by bleeding on his bathroom floor.

Then his gaze catches on something else—the mark on my chin.

His face shifts like someone just changed the channel from "concerned parent" to "what the hell is happening in my house." Confusion knits his brows together, and he leans closer, eyes narrowing like he's trying to solve a puzzle that shouldn't exist.

"That mark," he says quietly, his voice dropping to that careful tone he uses when he's trying not to jump to conclusions but is definitely jumping to conclusions anyway. "That's not normal."

I roll onto my side, suddenly self-conscious about the supernatural tattoo that's probably glowing like a neon sign advertising my poor decision-making skills.

"Yeah. I noticed," I say weakly, because what else can you say when your father discovers that you've been marked by a vampire? "It's new."

Dad frowns, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he processes this information and probably starts calculating all the ways this could go horribly wrong for everyone involved.