My eyes closed, my hands curling into fists at my sides, as his fingers moved lower into the bottom wings of roses and purples. He didn’t follow the lines down, but in, toward my spine, until he could run a thumb up the entire length of black ink that ran down the center of my back. “That’s gorgeous,” he whispered. “Why a butterfly?” “Ask your father.” Suddenly his hand was trembling against my skin, against the mark of his father’s ownership. He didn’t move it away, though. “He did this to you?” I didn’t answer.
