Chapter Forty

River swallowed against a rising tide of emotions and a tightening in his throat. “And where will this thing go?” He pointed to the gold sphere in the dragon’s claws. “Because I’m not tattooing your nipple.”

Erik poked his arm. “Definitely not my nipple,” he said through a laugh.

River tucked Erik’s smile away, safekeeping it for later.

“Good,” River said. He closed his eyes and squeezed Erik’s thigh. He knew what a Yong was; he’d done his dragon research when he’d given Erik the Ouroboros. The Yong meant something deeper than the words they exchanged now. Something hard and bright and intrusively real. He cleared his throat and ran his thumb along the spiral edge of his drawing pad.

The shop was mostly empty. River risked a kiss, a deeper one, pressing a promise into Erik’s mouth.

Erik tucked his lips against River’s cheek. “Are you gonna make this yours or what?”

“Your tattoo?” River cocked his head. “Or you?”

“Both.” Erik looked down at his fingers, twisting together. “Make it your art. Make me your art.”

River glowed, then. Maybe Erik hadn’t known quite what the Ouroboros meant to River when they’d done it. But he did now. The request wasn’t acquiescence to River’s overture; it was all Erik. He thought of Erik’s chest, its planes and the cut lines of his ribs and abdomen. Sketched the dragon in his mind. Thought of the watercolor of the Ouroboros and the sharp geometry of the Imugi.

“How do you feel about a little of this and a little of that?”

“If I had any idea what that meant, I’d probably be okay with it.” Erik’s smile was in his eyes, the loose set of his jaw, just a hint at the corners of his lips.

River pointed at the newer art on the wall at his station. Tucked away in the corner was a small one, a perfectly balanced piece, half geometric tree and half bleeding greens that only hinted at a potential shape. He’d done it just days after their night in the woods, with Erik’s confession of love still vibrating inside, buzzing against River’s fears.

“Something with these sharp lines, but watercolor, too.”

Erik examined the piece with a thoughtfulness River appreciated. He wasn’t rushing into anything for River’s sake. It was, after all, his body wearing River’s art.

“Won’t the dragon lose something if it’s drawn that way? I like the contrast between the lines and the watercolor. But I want it to be clear.”

River tapped a pencil against the cover of his notebook and mulled it over, drawing and redrawing it in his mind. “So, the dragon in outlines maybe, but not necessarily as angular. Put the depth in the watercolor here”—he tapped the dragon—“and maybe something different in the sphere. No color bleeding out. Dense and darker than the rest.”

“The intention isn’t for it to be holding something bad, babe.”

“No,” River said through a smile. “More like something fathomless. Like love.” He blushed but didn’t take it back, didn’t make a joke to lighten the sentiment. What he felt for Erik was fathomless, a love that was shocking in its truth, in its potential, in how happy they knew they could make each other. “Right?”

“Right.” Erik kissed him quietly. “Do you know the story?” Erik’s fingertips grazed River’s knee.

River did, but he shook his head anyway.

“Once an Imugi catches a star, its wish is granted, and it turns into a Yong, a storm dragon that governs the skies. They’re more compassionate, wiser, stronger—better.”

“What happens to the star?”

Erik’s lips spread into a crooked grin. “The dragon keeps the star. It’s a pride thing, I think.”

River smirked. This was a storm he could get used to—one he wanted to stay in day after day after day—Erik O’Malley’s vicious, wonderful storm. “So, outline, watercolor, and lots of saturation. Detail in and around the star; fluidity mixed with a modern, angular design. Sound good, tough guy?”

Erik’s eyes didn’t leave his. They held River suspended between breaths. He moved close, framed River’s warm cheeks in rough palms, and looked unerringly into River’s eyes. “Sounds perfect, pretty boy.”

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