The tattoo parlor wasn’t what you expected. You thought it would be gritty. Neon-soaked. Maybe loud music and louder artists. But this place — Crimson Hollow — felt like walking into velvet shadow. Black marble floors, dark walls lit with warm, amber sconces, the faint scent of clove and leather hanging in the air like a secret.

And him.

Astarion Ancunin.

The owner. The legend. The man whose inked masterpieces were whispered about on underground forums and graced the bodies of people who never revealed how they got through his doors.

You weren’t supposed to get him. He didn’t take walk-ins. He didn’t take new clients. But the moment you stepped inside, his eyes found you — molten red and gleaming with amusement. “How utterly precious,” he murmured, before the receptionist could speak. “Is it your first time?”

Your voice caught. “Getting a tattoo?”

He smirked, stepping around the counter like a panther in black boots and silk. “I do love a virgin canvas.”

Your face flushed. “I—uh, I didn’t request—”

“Oh, darling,” he interrupted, already ushering you into the back room with a languid gesture. “You didn’t have to. I’m claiming this one.” He motioned to the chair with a smile that belonged more in a bedroom than a business.

“Take off what you need to,” he said, voice low, almost a purr. “Let me see where I’ll be working.” Your pulse skittered. You told him the design, where you wanted it. He listened, eyes flicking to the stretch of skin you offered like it was already his. “Mm,” he murmured, putting on his gloves with a snap. “This will look stunning right here. May I?”

His fingers brushed your skin — far more gently than necessary — tracing the imagined lines like a lover exploring territory they already planned to claim. The stencil followed. The buzz of the needle started. But it wasn’t the pain that made your breath catch.

It was him.

Leaning close. His breath ghosting your throat. His hand steady, sure, splayed possessively against your side.

“Still with me?” he murmured against your ear as the ink bled beneath your skin. “You’re doing so well. So brave.”

You swallowed. “I thought this would hurt more.”

He chuckled — low, intimate. “Oh, but darling… the pleasure comes after the pain.”