Alpha: Devil's Rose MC #3

Chapter 23: Persephone Estrada

One Week Later

"What did you do?"

"I got a tattoo."

"I am going to kill you! Murder you!"

"Why?"

"We've been dating for one full week, and you already got a motherfreaking tattoo for me!"

"I didn't think you would be mad about it."

"I didn't think that I would have the chance to be mad about this!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No, no, no. You don't get to do that. I should be making you feel guilty, okay? You are putting too much pressure on me. I don't-I can't-I don't even know where to begin."

This morning, I couldn't imagine him ever wanting a tattoo dedicated to me after ten years of whatever we are. Even if we ever became more, he would have no tattoo. Especially not one placed over his heart. And if that's not cliché enough, it's my freaking birthday. 

I mean, not the tattoo, he didn't get a tattoo of my birthdate, but he got the tattoo dedicated to me on my birthday. It's a gorgeous tattoo. It's a simple, small, and minimalistic outline of a pomegranate. I have to admit that I am quite stunned that he even did something this drastic, but I do think he has completely lost his mind. 

Besides the fact that I'm a sucker for Persephone and Hades' love story (though incestuous as it might seem - all Greek myths can be pretty incestuous), I don't think I have ever met someone who loves me enough to want to tattoo something on themselves. 

And I'm not saying that everyone that loves me would tattoo themselves because that would be the most unreasonable and far-out thought I have ever suggested, it's just that no one has been that dedicated to me before. No one has cared for me enough to want to make a reminder of me last. I guess I'm not used to that kind of treatment.

I've had a wonderful birthday. Everyone is more kind and thoughtful than I could have known about a group of tough-looking men that ride motorcycles and steal from bad guys selling weapons and drugs. Okay, so maybe, deep down, part of me knew they were softies. 

They paid enough attention to me to know that I'm reading more, and I have multiple new classics to read. Not just white men classics too. I spent some time with the women as well, talking about my hobbies as a twenty-nine-year-old (not that they changed much) and gossiping all while sipping virgin drinks made by the one and only Whiskey. 

It wasn't until later in the day that King and I were finally able to spend some time together. Much needed, may I add. He's incredibly funny. In the way that certain things annoy him, for example, me not giving him a hug when we see one another or someone accidentally interrupting me when I'm speaking, things like that.

I was hanging out with the girls and he walked into the bar in the middle of our conversation. Naturally, not wanting to be rude, I didn't stand up, walk over to him, give him a big giant hug and kiss on the lips, squeeze his crotch (like I would ever), and go sit back down with the people I was talking to. 

It will be known that he pouted at me for ten minutes before I waved him over and let him hold me into his comfortable lap. What a baby. It wasn't too long after that that we were both ready to head home for the night. 

We had a wonderful dinner with pasta and spaghetti, garlic bread, and chocolate cake for dessert. We moved to the couch, Pink Sweat$ playing low in the background, our legs tangled up underneath the blanket. Now, here we are, my fingers brushing over the stupid, gorgeous tattoo.