You cracked an eye open as the sun streamed into the hotel room, wishing drunk you had thought to do sober you a favour and shut the curtains. You shift in the bed, starting to sit up and your head throbs in protest. All those shots you and Rafe had consumed last night were contributing to the headache of all headaches. Rafe stirs beside you in the bed, his arm flopping onto your body.

“It’s too early. Go back to sleep” he grumbles, head buried in his pillow in an attempt to block out the light.

“Need water” you reply, sliding his arm off of you to his protests. You gingerly peel back the covers and slowly climb out of the bed, padding into the bathroom, clad only in your rumpled tank top and thong. You fumble around for the light switch, hearing a load groan from the bedroom when the light comes on.

Reaching for faucet, you catch your reflection in the mirror, a flash of colour catching your eye. You turn your body to get a better look, grabbing at your skin. No. There was no way. You wouldn’t have been that stupid. You keep staring as it sinks in. You’ve marked yourself. You’re now sporting Rafe’s name tattooed on your ass. Stumbling back into the bedroom, still in shock, you start yelling for him to wake up.

“Jesus Christ princess. Why are you yelling this much when my head is killing me?” He demands, sitting up with a growl. The sheet falls from his body, settling at his waist and that’s when you catch a close glimpse of his chest. Unbelievable.

“We got tattooed! Your name is on my ass! My name is on your chest. This is bad. So, so bad” you wail, wincing as the shrill tone of your voice makes your head pound harder. God, the two of you were drunken idiots.

Rafe runs his hand through his hair, taking in your words. He glances down at his chest, seeing your name tattooed across his heart. He lets out a bark of laughter, earning him a glare from you. He liked that he now wore a permanent reminder that you belonged to him. Liked it even more that your body was marked permanently with his name. You were his. Branded.

“I don’t see what the issue is” he says, his voice dancing with amusement as he watches you examining your tattoo with panic. You were adorable, and you were his.