“Turn around,” I ordered. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he sighed and turned. A tattoo stretched across his broad back—something like a compass rose, but much more like a sun, the points reaching from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine. “Why?” I asked. “Why would you do this?” He shrugged and his muscles flexed beneath the intricate design. “Mal, why would you mark yourself this way?” “I have a lot of scars,” he said finally. “This is one I chose.”
