Arthur Shelby leaned against the doorframe, all 6’3” of imposing calm as he watched Yn slip out of her day clothes. The loose grey tee and black trousers she pulled on were simple, but it was the ink beneath that caught his eye — the stories etched deep into her skin.

His sharp gaze traced the arrow and circle band wrapping her forearm, a nod to Russian prison scars and cold discipline. The fiery phoenix on her shoulder seemed to flicker under the dim light, a symbol of relentless rebirth. Then the dagger, cruel and sharp, inked through her neck — a silent warning. The bold script, Fortes Fortuna Juvat, stretched across the back of her shoulders, daring fate itself. And the dagger down her spine, like a shadow waiting to strike.

He moved closer, the dangerous edge in his eyes softening just enough, “Come here.”