Yesterday, when the assistant mentioned scars, I hadn't grasped the true gravity of the situation. I'd envisioned a few minor marks, perhaps, but what I witnessed painted a far more harrowing picture: her back was a tapestry of jagged lines and blemishes. The interplay of old and new scars spoke a silent, brutal narrative of prolonged suffering. After Cassy revealed them, I did my best to remain composed, masking the profound effect it had on me.
The neon sign of "Half Moon Tattoo Shop" flared to life as we pushed open the door. I'd told Matt we were extending our stay another night, departing first thing in the morning. He'd grudgingly agreed, but only after I promised to break the news myself to my parents that we wouldn't be returning today.
My father, King Alaric, was predictably upset, but my mother was more than happy to hear I wanted to spend more time with my new mate, and was already excited to meet the lady who had captured my attention. My own attention, however, was a coiled spring. Every step Cassy took towards the back of the shop felt like a step away from my control, and that was a sensation I deeply resented. The thought of Josh, and what he'd done, was a venomous serpent coiled in my gut, its scales scraping against my resolve.
A woman with vibrant teal hair and an array of piercings greeted us with a warm, knowing smile. She introduced herself as Anya, the shop's owner and resident artist. Cassy, as usual, shrank a little under the attention, her voice barely a whisper as she explained her request. It was a surprise for me, she murmured, her gaze flicking towards me with a nervous tremor. Anya's eyes, sharp and intelligent, met mine, and I saw a flicker of understanding there. "Of course," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "I'll be in the waiting area." The thought of being separated from her, especially at this moment, gnawed at me, but I knew I had to let her have this. This was her choice, her way of reclaiming what had been violated. I watched her follow Anya, her shoulders slightly hunched, the sleeves of her t-shirt doing little to hide the tension in her frame.
As I settled onto a worn leather couch, Matt slid in beside me, his usual easy grin replaced with a more serious, thoughtful expression. "Still thinking about it?" he asked, nodding towards the closed door. I grunted an affirmative, the image of Cassy's pain burning behind my eyelids. "He won't get away with it, Matt," I said, my voice a low growl. "Josh Blackwater and his Father… they've made a grave mistake."
Matt leaned back, his gaze steady. "I understand your frustration," he stated, "but we need to be careful about this Alpha." His words were like a cold splash of water, and while I knew he was right, my mind remained a whirlwind of destructive possibilities. "If we simply destroy the pack," Matt went on, "it will sow seeds of distrust among all the other packs. They'll begin to wonder if the Royal Pack will eventually come for them all." My fist clenched, a familiar ache settling in my jaw. "So we just let them be?" I demanded, my glare sharp.
"We don't *let* them be, Derick," Matt corrected, his tone measured. "We dismantle them. Piece by piece. Their reputation, their alliances, their resources. Josh Blackwater and his father have made a grave mistake, yes, but they also exposed themselves. This isn't about a simple pack dispute anymore; it's about showing every pack that crossed that line that there are consequences, severe ones." He paused, letting his words sink in. "And we do it in a way that benefits us, not just sates our anger." The logic was undeniably sound, and it pricked at the edges of my simmering rage, offering a more strategic, albeit less immediately satisfying, path.
I pictured Josh, his smug face with that perpetual smirk, his twenty-one years of privilege radiating from him. He was the son of an Alpha, accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he'd clearly believed Cassy was just another prize to be taken. He, and his father, had underestimated her resilience, and they had *certainly* underestimated me. The thought of his coming downfall, orchestrated not by brute force but by calculated ruin, began to take root in my mind. It was a slow burn, a meticulous plan that would leave the Blackwater pack a hollow shell, its alpha stripped of his authority and his son exposed as the weak, cruel coward he truly was.
"So," I mused, leaning back and crossing my arms, the anger still present but now channeled, "we isolate them. We turn their allies against them. We chip away at their influence until they're nothing more than a forgotten name on an old map. And Josh… he'll get exactly what he deserves, but it will be a fate far worse than a quick end." The idea was intoxicating, a far more satisfying revenge than anything I'd initially conceived. This wasn't just about Cassy anymore; it was about asserting the strength and authority of my own Kingdom, and ensuring no one ever dared to treat one of our own with such brutality again.
My thoughts were momentarily broken by the soft click of the door as Anya, the artist, re-entered the waiting room. Her eyes swept the space, a silent question in their depths, until they settled on us. She approached, stopping directly before us, and let out a barely audible sigh. A hand ghosted through her hair, a gesture of quiet contemplation, before she finally met our gaze. "I've spoken with Cassy," she began, her announcement sending a jolt through me. "We have a pretty good idea of what she'd like to do, but it will definitely take a few hours."
"I don't know that I'll be able to cover all the scars," she admitted honestly, her voice tinged with a hint of concern. "But I will do whatever I can. I just wanted to give you a heads-up." With a brief nod, she turned and walked back towards where I assumed Cassy was waiting.
Anya's words hung in the air, a fragile truth I had to accept. A few hours. It felt like an eternity when every second ticked by with Cassy's vulnerability exposed. My jaw tightened, the image of her back a constant, searing reminder of why we were here. Anya had been frank about the difficulty, but I'd already seen the impossible artistry within her words. She would do her best, and that was all we could ask for. The rest, the true healing, would be a longer, more arduous journey, one that I was prepared to walk with her every step of the way, no matter how long it took.
Matt nudged me gently, his eyes holding a shared understanding. "It's going to be alright, Derick. She's strong." He was right. Cassy was the strongest person I knew, and this was her reclaiming her narrative. My role was to protect, to support, and to ensure that the monsters like Josh Blackwater never had the chance to touch her, or anyone else, again. This quiet strategizing, this calculated dismantling, was my promise to her, a promise etched in the blood and tears of the past, and in the dawning light of our future.
Hours later, Anya emerged, her face split by a huge grin – a stark contrast to her previous exit. "Well, I have to say," she began, beaming, "I think this is my best work yet."
I released a breath I didn't know I was holding, "And Cassy?" I asked standing up. I already felt I had been away from her for far to long.
Anya smiled and gestured towards the back room, a simple "This way, Alpha Derick," escaping her lips. I shouldn't have been surprised she recognized me; my face was plastered all over the internet and likely shown in schools. Still, I offered no comment and followed her towards Cassy, while Matt lingered behind, granting us a private moment.
Stepping through the back door, I found Cassy seated in a chair. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she sprang to her feet with a broad smile, though a slight wince followed. I rushed to her side, gently holding her still, carefully avoiding her sore back. Through our bond, I could feel her joy and relief wash over me, and my wolf visibly relaxed.
"Thanks for waiting, Derick," she said softly, pulling away. She nodded at Anya with a smile, and Anya, understanding the cue, came over. Carefully turning her, Anya lifted the shirt over her head, revealing her full back.
My breath snagged in my throat. Across Cassy's skin, a symphony of obsidian ink unfurled, two colossal raven wings, each feather meticulously etched, sweeping from her shoulder blades to the small of her back. They mirrored the slope of her outstretched arms, a stark contrast to the pale canvas of the studio's bare brick wall. Where ragged lines of scar tissue had once marred her flesh, the ink now flowed, a dark tide engulfing the pale valleys. Only the faintest, almost imperceptible ripple, a ghost beneath the feathered expanse, hinted at the history beneath.
Anya's sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. "Well?" she finally asked, "What do you think?"
Cassy stretched, a slow, deliberate movement that pulled the inked wings taut, then relaxed them. A barely audible sigh escaped her lips. "It's... everything," she whispered, her gaze fixed on a mirror as she looked over her shoulder. "It's like the scars just… faded into them."