“Quinn, please, wait—” But it’s too late. I’ve already seen it. The tattoo is large and vivid, snaking all the way down her spine from her nape to the small of her back. It’s a twisting, thorny vine of red roses and delicate black leaves, branching out from the center in all directions. It’s staggeringly breathtaking, not only for the intricacy and artistry of the ink, but also for the stalk from which each flower blooms. A scar. Her entire back is covered in raised white scars, each a finger’s width and about as long.
