Chapter 5 The Tattoo

♤SEBASTIAN♤

She is barely conscious in my arms, her body limp and warm against my chest. Her scent surrounds me, tangerine and jasmine, and I am twenty-six years old again drowning in her.

"Yasmin," I whisper again, my lips brushing against her temple.

She does not respond. Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow, and I know whatever Nolan put in the air is working its way through her system.

I told him to use the drone to disperse a mild sedative, just enough to make her dizzy, just enough to give me a moment alone with her. I did not tell him to knock her out cold.

I said a light sedative, Nolan.

His imaginary voice replies in my head. Relax, brother. She will wake up in an hour with a headache and no memory of what happened. You are welcome.

I am going to kill him. Later.

I carry her away from the terrace doors into the far end of the balcony where no one can see us. I lay her down on a velvet chaise tucked in the corner, and she is so beautiful it makes my chest ache.

Her gown has ridden up her thighs, one strap fallen off her shoulder.

I cannot stop myself from touching her face. My fingers trace her jaw and she stirs.

"Sebastian," she murmurs.

I freeze.

I knew it. How could she ever forget me? We have too many beautiful memories together for her not to remember.

I lean over her, one hand braced against the back of the chaise. The other finds her waist, and even through the thin silk, I can feel the heat of her skin.

My thumb moves in slow circles against her side, and even half sedated, she responds. Her body arches just slightly, a soft sound escaping her lips, and the sound goes straight to my groin.

Is she really just pretending?

There is only one way to confirm that this woman is truly my Yasmin. On our one year anniversary, she got my initial inked on her waistline.

A small S, for Sebastian.

I lift her gently, pulling her against my chest until her front is pressed firmly against me. She is so soft I have to close my eyes for a second to steady myself.

My hands move to the back of her gown and I find a small rope tied in a delicate bow, the only thing holding the entire dress together.

I pull the knot loose.

The silk falls away from her back, sliding down her shoulders and pooling at her waist.

My breath catches.

Her back is bare now, smooth and golden in the moonlight, but it is not her back that steals the air from my lungs. It is what I see when the fabric falls forward just slightly.

Her breasts, small and perky, barely covered by nothing more than a flimsy nipple cover, and I have missed touching them these past three years.

My hands itch to cup them, to feel their weight in my palms the way I used to, to roll her nipples between my fingers until she moans my name.

I tear my eyes away. I am here to be sure, not to take advantage of her when she cannot even stand on her own.

I force my focus back to her waistline and slowly push the dress lower, over the curve of her back, over the rise of her backside, until the tattoo comes into view.

I freeze.

The S is there, it sits in the middle of two curved lines on either side like parentheses cradling the letter between them.

Joy and anger flood through me at the same time. Joy because she is truly my Yasmin. Anger because my father dared to take her from me.

The anger consumes me for a moment, and the need to show my father that she is not someone he can ever possess nearly overtakes every ounce of restraint I have left.

I want to devour her right here, to leave marks on her skin that will remind her every time she looks in the mirror who she belongs to.

But I control myself. Barely.

I trace my finger over the tattoo, following the curved lines, brushing over the S, and her skin pebbles beneath my touch.

I feel the softness of her breasts against my chest, and I have to close my eyes for a second to keep from losing control.

"Yasmin," I breathe. "Your tattoo. Where did you get it?"

She stirs in my arms, pressing her chest against mine in a way that nearly makes me lose control. The thin fabric of her nipple cover brushes against my shirt, and I can feel the heat of her even through the layers between us.

A small whimper escapes her lips, and the sound is so achingly familiar that my entire body responds. I am hard against her thigh, and I know she can feel it, but she does not pull away.

"I do not remember," she slurs, her head lolling against my shoulder. "But my aunt Sofia says… the S stands for Sofia."

Sofia? What bullshit is that?

You are an orphan with no family, Yasmin. When I met you four years ago, you were just a twenty-two year old orphan selling beautiful paintings by the roadside.

Your artwork caught my eye in traffic that day, and when I saw your striking resemblance to my mother, I just could not let you go.

I still remember the joy on your face in Iceland. You had always wanted to see the Aurora Borealis, so I made our first anniversary an unforgettable memory by taking you there.

You talked about it for weeks. You said it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, and you wanted to draw it for the rest of your life.

How could you forget any of this?

Who the hell is this aunt Sofia who has been feeding you lies?

What happened to you? Did you truly forget everything?

Were you on that flight? Did you escape somehow, but the crash damaged your brain?

I look at her beautiful face, and my heart squeezes with pain. I do not know when I lean in, but my lips find her temple and I press a kiss there.

She sighs against me, her body relaxing completely into mine, and one of her hands comes up to grip my shirt.

What have you been through the last few years?

I am sorry I made you leave angrily that day. If I had stopped you, you would not have entered that unfortunate plane.

I have always blamed myself for the fact that our last day together was a bitter argument. But now that you are here, I am going to rewrite everything.

It does not matter if you remember me or not. From now on, Yasmin, I will make you mine again, step by step, no matter what it costs me. I will take back what is rightfully mine.

If you are going to die, Jonathan, you better do it now, because this woman right here is mine…. And mine only.