“How long did those take?” I ask, nodding toward his tattoos. Maddox glances down at his arms, flexing his fingers slightly before letting them relax. “Years.” I trace the patterns with my eyes, drawn to the way the ink moves with the shift of his muscles. “They let you get tattoos in prison?” His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his gaze. “Some.” I tilt my head, waiting. He exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Some of these came before. The rest… I earned.” Before. The word lingers in the air between us, and I get the distinct impression that before holds
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