Because there, tucked beneath his collarbone and positioned right over his chest, Adrian has a tattoo of a poppy flower. “You have a tattoo.” Shock colors my voice, and my trembling fingers reach for his exposed skin, half-expecting the ink to smudge with pressure. It doesn’t. “You have a tattoo,” I repeat, but it doesn’t sound any less unbelievable the second time. “Of my name.” And, judging by the lack of scabbing, flaking, and raised skin, it’s not a fresh addition. “When?” My voice shakes just as much as my hand. The intensity in his eyes is nearly suffocating. “Several years ago.”
Obviously
