I fell in love with a cold, taciturn tattoo artist named Henry Kane.

So I deliberately damaged my tattoo again and again, picking at the skin and reworking the design, just to see him a few more times.

By the third visit for touch-ups, scrolling comments suddenly appeared before my eyes:

“I’m dying of laughter. This desperate female lead literally destroyed her freshly tattooed skin just to see the male lead again, and she still didn’t dare confess her feelings.”

“Henry Kane is actually the embodiment of an ancient ferocious beast who sat on mountains of gold and silver but refused to spend them, choosing instead to open a tattoo studio to experience mortal life.”

“He looks icy and distant, but his possessiveness has long since maxed out.”

“He was just afraid his violent nature would scare his woman away.”

I looked at the man in front of me, who was lowering his head as he wiped down the tattoo machine, and he did indeed give off an unmistakable keep-your-distance aura.

But the comments claimed that he wanted to possess me?

“Um… Excuse me?”

The man tilted his head slightly, and under the weight of his deep gaze, the confession lodged in my throat.

My mind short-circuited, and I blurted out, “I… I wanted to tattoo it on my lower back this time.”

In an instant, the comments exploded in joy.

“Woohoo! We’re taking off!”

“Lower back, you say? That’s a sensitive spot! Can this pure-hearted ferocious beast really hold back?”

“Good grief, straight to the undressing scene! This cunning move by the female lead is operating on a whole other level!”

The man’s hand gripping the tattoo machine jerked to a sudden stop, and the air seemed to freeze for a few seconds.

Then he answered, his voice slightly hoarse and unreadable, “Alright.”

When I pushed open the heavy glass door of the Nightshade Tattoo Studio, the wind chime above it rang out in a crisp cascade of sound.

Henry Kane sat on a tall stool behind the workstation, wearing a black mask as he lowered his head and sketched.

The air-conditioning ran cold inside the shop, carrying a faint blend of disinfectant and sharp tobacco.

It was an unmistakable scent that belonged only to him.

At the sound, he did not even look up; only the pencil in his hand paused for a brief moment.

A black T-shirt stretched across his broad back, and with each breath, his shoulder blades lifted the fabric, outlining muscle lines taut with restrained power.

In that instant, excited comments filled my vision:

“Ahhh! Those shoulders! That waistline! I could just embrace him from behind…”

“Hey, stop daydreaming! Henry is desperately suppressing the restlessness inside him. His woman is here, and he can barely hide his tail!”

“So this is the legendary beast in human form? He’s just drawing… But why does it feel like he’s hunting instead?”

I swallowed hard, and my steps, which had still felt unsteady from just recovering from a high fever, suddenly grew heavy.

“Sit.”

Henry finally lifted his eyes and glanced at me.

Those unfathomably deep eyes swept over me, and his gaze seemed to linger in midair for a second before quickly moving away.

There was an unmistakable coldness that warned others to keep their distance, yet it felt as though something tempting lay hidden beneath it.

I obediently walked to the leather chair beside the workstation and sat down, placing my hands neatly on my knees.

Henry set down his pencil and stood, walking toward the sink.

The sound of running water filled the room.

As I watched his long fingers rinse beneath the stream, an image from my first visit, when I had come to tattoo my collarbone, rose unbidden in my mind.

That day, I had sat the same way, so nervous I had felt like a quail awaiting slaughter.

Because I feared the pain, I had clutched the hem of his shirt, wrinkling that expensive-looking black tee into a mess.

Henry had not grown impatient; instead, he had leaned closer.

He had moved so near that I could see each distinct eyelash and feel his warm breath brushing against the side of my neck.

“Relax.”

His low voice had sounded like a cello, sensual and filled with warmth.

“Take a deep breath. If your muscles are too tense, the lines will become crooked, hm?”

“O-okay,” I managed eventually.

At the time, my soul had nearly fled my body.

All I could feel was that large hand in a black nitrile glove gently pressing against my shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin layer of rubber.

It was the stark contrast between ultimate gentleness and restrained violence.

It was at that very moment that I seemed to fall under a spell, constantly finding excuses to return to Henry’s studio.

But I lacked courage, and with my strict upbringing, I had never dared to cross the line.

Until this time.

I subconsciously reached out and touched my lower back, where a faint itch and sting lingered.

The last time the tattoo had scabbed over, I had missed him too much and couldn’t find an excuse to come, so I had forcibly picked at the scab before it had healed.

This was my third touch-up.

It was also my self-directed and self-performed act of “playing the victim.”

The comments drifted by right on cue:

“I’m dead. This isn’t clumsiness, it’s desire itching under the skin!”

“Claire Rivers ruins her own skin just to see her man once. Yeah, only she would pull that off!”

“Henry is washing his hands three times longer than usual! He’s calming himself down! He’s trying not to look like a creep!”

Was that… really the case?

I watched in the mirror as Henry turned off the faucet, methodically dried his hands, and then pulled on a fresh pair of black gloves.

He turned around, and his gaze fell on the lower back I had been covering the whole time; his eyes darkened instantly.

My heart shrank.

…

Henry finished his preparations, secured his gloves, and pushed over a metal trolley that had somehow already been set up.

The faint sound of the wheels rolling across the floor filled my ears, almost drowning out the beating of my heart.

He said nothing, only reached out to pull over a chair and sat down behind me.

As he drew closer, that sharp, icy scent intensified at once, as if it had enclosed me within an invisible territory.

“Lift your shirt.”

The words were brief, cold, and left no room for refusal.

Blushing, I shakily rolled up the hem of my T-shirt, revealing a stretch of pale skin marred by imperfections.

A very soft click of the tongue sounded behind me.

Immediately after, the cool touch of rubber gloves met my overheated skin, sending fine shivers rippling through me.

Henry’s fingers were long and strong, and even through the gloves, I could feel the rough calluses on his fingertips.

He pressed lightly along the edge of the wound, his movements so gentle they seemed impossible, as though he were touching something fragile and precious.

Yet the words he spoke sounded on the verge of annoyance.

“Miss Rivers, are your hands really that restless?

“It was a perfectly good piece, and you picked it until it looks this scratched up.”

I drew my neck in slightly, not daring to turn around to look at him, and could only stare at the full-length mirror in front of me.

Henry’s reflection lowered his head slightly, his brows sharp and austere.

The mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only a pair of pitch-black eyes exposed.

Those eyes were locked firmly on my waist, shadowed emotions churning beneath their surface.

Suddenly, comments showed up in a fury of excitement:

“Help! Does Henry look like he’s about to eat someone alive?”

“What do you mean? He’s clearly heartbroken! I can see his hand shaking while holding the cotton swab!”

“He’s holding back! He’s desperately suppressing the beastly instinct to pull his woman into his arms and lick her wounds! After all, this beast is the most ferocious of ferocious beasts!”

“Henry’s inner monologue must be: Whoever made my woman hurt deserves to die! Oh—it was my own woman who picked at it? Then never mind. I’ll just kill myself slowly.”

Was it… Really like that?

I watched those eyes in the mirror grow darker still, and my heart began to race.

“It might hurt a little. Bear with it.”

He picked up a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic and gently wiped over the reddened wound.

A sharp sting followed, and I shrank back instinctively, letting out a very soft whimper.

“Mmh…”

Henry’s hand froze abruptly.

In the mirror, I clearly saw his Adam’s apple roll and the instant darkness that flooded his pupils.

The air seemed to thicken at that moment.

He did not resume right away.

After pausing for a few seconds, he finally spoke, his voice hoarse, “So delicate…”

Though the word itself sounded dismissive, there was little real reproach in his tone.

It was something that felt like… desire.

The comments exploded instantly:

“Ahhh! That sounded so good it killed me!”

“Did you see Henry’s ears turn red? This pure-hearted beast is shy!”

“That soft whimper was basically toeing the ferocious beast’s danger zone! Henry’s sanity meter must be nearly drained!”

“This is the moment! Female lead, make your move! His defenses are at their weakest!”

Provoked by the barrage of comments, my face heated up.

That pent-up frustration, the longing to touch him yet not daring to, mixed with the days of suppressed yearning, instantly shattered my reason.

Before I could think, I turned around and met the eyes that had not yet managed to rein in their emotions.

Our gazes locked.

Henry’s hand holding the cotton swab stiffened in midair.

“Um… Hi…”

I drew in a deep breath, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt as I gathered every ounce of courage I had.

“Since this piece is ruined, then I… I want to get a new one somewhere else.”

Henry looked at me quietly, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human.

“Where?”

I lifted a finger and shakily pointed a little lower on my back, toward those faintly visible indentations.

It was an extremely private and extremely sensitive place.

“I… I want to tattoo it on my lower back.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I saw Henry’s pitch-black pupils contract sharply, narrowing to needle points.

The sudden sense of danger made my skin prickle.

…

“Whoa… Who’s excited?”

“Lower back! So scandalous!”

“The absolute peak of seduction!”

“I heard Henry has a private tattoo of his own, in the same spot, hehehe.”

Henry swallowed.

“You sure?” he asked hoarsely.

I hadn’t thought it through at all, so I tried to redirect the firepower.

“I heard… You have one too?”

I had overheard a staff member mention it once, but I had never seen it myself.

Henry’s breathing became louder.

He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if struggling desperately to restrain himself.

I couldn’t help wondering, would he just throw me out?

Then, Henry slowly straightened.

The pressure in that moment was intense.

Henry had a naturally sullen look, and when he didn’t smile, he could put the fear of God in a petulant child.

But right now, the way he looked at me was like a massive dog who had retracted its claws, seeking only the mercy of its master.

It was as if, with just a beckoning of my hand, he would give me his life.

“Want to see?”

The sense of danger dissipated the moment he spoke.

I nodded without thinking.

“Yes. Definitely.”

Henry’s eyes flicked slightly, a dangerous edge coloring his tone.

“Once you see it, there’s no going back.

“Tattooing this spot will hurt.”

I had cried like a baby the last time I had gotten my collarbone tattooed.

“Then… maybe forget it.”

I breathed a secret sigh of relief.

Henry’s expression said, “I knew it”, but he didn’t expose me.

He seemed in a good mood, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Lie down. I’ll deal with the inflamed area first.”

I obediently lay across the tattoo chair, just like last time.

Yet, somehow, it felt completely different.

For example…

“From now on, if you want to see me, just come, don’t torture yourself.”

“Oh.”

Henry sat behind me so I couldn’t see his expression.

The cold antiseptic brushed over my warm skin, sending shivers down my spine.

As he cleaned the wound, he murmured, “Bear with it.”

“Uh huh…”

But then—

“Miss Rivers, you come running to my shabby shop every day. Doesn’t your fiancé get jealous?”

“Ah?”

The twist was so sudden I almost bit my tongue.

Henry’s tone, in contrast, was calm, like he was asking about the weather.

Yet the pressure of his hand on the cotton swab grew just slightly heavier.

Could it be… that he was jealous?

The comments, of course, went wild:

“Henry’s hand is shaking! The jealousy jar just tipped over!”

“Because of his rough upbringing for being so different, he’s so insecure that he barely dares to look her in the eye.”