She turned to me, watching me with guarded emotion in her eyes as she ran her fingertips over the ink on my chest, and up my neck, to my jaw, my lips. She gently touched the scab forming there. The one she gave me. “I’m sorry about this, by the way,” she said. “No, you’re not.” “You’re right,” she said, her lips quirking up on one side in a cheeky smirk. “I’m not.”
