Niall didn’t fight him, but did shoot Evan a look that indicated it wouldn’t have been his first choice. Then he was blind, Joseph lacing the sides snug so the blindfold molded to Niall’s face, the bridge of his nose.

I want you in your head, neshama. Feeling everything. Her mouth on your cock, my hands on you, the needle as I stitch the paint and my blood into you . . . the invisible eyes of your many admirers.

Niall stayed quiet, likely sensing Evan getting into his own head as well. The Scot was intuitive that way. Pulling up a stool, Evan adjusted his table of inking tools, the variety of colors, the tiny cups to clean the needle and dip into new colors. He also had a scalpel and ceramic bowl handy, the most important elements for what he was about to do.

When he’d first told Niall he was going to do this, the Scot had said little about it, but since then it had drifted through his head with the constancy of clouds in the sky. The fact that he didn’t think too deeply on it told Evan it intrigued him more than he was willing to admit.

Niall bore his third mark, the significance of the chai symbol not lost on either of them, given that Niall had come to him on the brink of death, but Evan wanted to enhance it with his art. Make Niall one of his canvases.

“Thank you, Leila. That’s enough.” His servant’s powerful thighs were trembling with the effort not to thrust into her mouth with the little movement permitted by his bonds. Evan could smell the semen that had oozed from the slit. The ring was cutting viciously into him, barely holding back the climax boiling in his balls. Leila had a very skilled mouth.

Now his servant was aroused, alert, fiercely agitated. Good. That was where he wanted him. Evan had no concerns about Niall tensing up over the process itself, which sometimes happened with first-time tattoo subjects and could degrade the design as a result. Niall had no fear of pain at Evan’s hands, could even get aroused from it, when applied correctly. But if Evan could get him into that floating state that Niall didn’t embrace as readily as a natural sub, the skin would accept the ink even better. He was on the threshold of that now, whether he realized it or not.

When Evan slid his fingers over Niall’s pectoral, where he would start the tattoo, the man quivered, his lips parting. “Only one focus. What I do to you here.” He gave him a single prick with the needle. Niall didn’t flinch, but his stomach muscles tightened like a drum. Evan could already see how he would edge out the dragon’s neck, using thicker lines for the turn of the head to give it a 3-D effect. He could use more whites and yellows for a highlighting effect, because the blood—and the fact that Niall didn’t spend most days in the full heat of the sun—would keep the fading to a minimum.

Evan picked up the scalpel next to the bowl, made a functional slice across his forearm. As the blood dripped into the bowl, Niall’s nostrils flared. The audience might be curious about the use of Evan’s blood, but the visceral and macabre easily blended with the primitive drives of Domination and submission.

Lifting a brush, Evan swished it through the blood, then applied a thin layer to Niall’s skin, over the first area where he’d be working. Then he took up the machine. “When the pain intensifies, listen to my mind, neshama. Find your center.”

He’d taught that inward focus to his servant early, a coping mechanism to handle a vampire’s more extreme demands, as well as to manage Niall’s personal demons. While a normal tattoo hurt, adding the blood to hold the design made it worse. Third marks had a high tolerance, but pain was pain. Being able to suffer in stillness didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt like hell.

Putting his hand on Niall’s shoulder to steady his stance, Evan eschewed the stool for now. He’d use it eventually, when he tattooed the dragon’s body along Niall’s upper abdomen, but he preferred to stand before his canvases when he could. It seemed more respectful to the muse—and the subject.

It took several hours to do all of it. He’d already sketched out the pattern, painted it, so he didn’t need to do a tracing. He had it locked in his mind, had inked it into Niall’s skin a hundred times. He knew every inch of his servant’s body as well as his own. Maybe better.

His servant had firm, healthy skin, thick and supple. Stretching it to allow the ink to flow into the skin smoothly and consistently was not difficult, but it still required concentration. Navigating the curves of bone and muscle, adapting when the layers of skin varied, adjusting the needle in the guide for deeper or more shallow lines. Pausing when his servant had to shift his body, because of the length of time it was taking. Though Evan could read that from Niall’s mind, he had known the Scot long enough to anticipate the movement, such that he would lift the needle even before the thought happened. Or utter a quiet admonishment, so Niall would hold still an extra few seconds until Evan was at a better stopping point.

Later, Tyler would tell him that most of the guests who came by to watch for a period of time ended up staying, absorbed by what they were seeing, the powerful energy humming between the two men, artist and subject. Master and servant. However, from the first prick, Evan was aware of nothing but his canvas. The rise and fall of Niall’s chest, the hitched breaths and quiver of muscle when things became too intense. The ribs were the worst, because the lack of adipose tissue made it particularly excruciating. Evan kept cool cloths handy, wiping the work area down frequently. Ink feathered during the tattoo process, so it was necessary to keep the area clear, but the side benefit was that it was soothing to the skin as well.

When he finished that section, Evan took a short break. Caressing his Scot’s broad rib cage, his bare hip, he rose to brush his lips over his shoulder, his throat, his mouth. Niall turned into the kiss, his lips for once almost docile under Evan’s, his mind caught in a deep well. His servant had stumbled into that area of his heart that embraced the possessive intimacy of what Evan was doing. It was the closest Niall came to subspace, a rare and precious gift that Evan savored. Niall didn’t often surrender, no matter the odds against him.

Taking a seat on the stool, he slid his knuckles along Niall’s inner thigh, grazing the testicles. “Time to keep going.”

Part of that subspace condition was a hyperalertness to every point of contact. Evan had stayed in Niall’s mind throughout, keeping track of his servant’s well-being, how he was holding up, so he also knew the man was aware of how Evan’s fingertips lay on his chest, pressing into his flesh, stretching it where needed. Or sometimes just resting, maintaining that contact as Niall was inked, a tactile reminder that he was restrained at Evan’s will as he became his art. That aroused his servant as much as anything else.

Evan took the emotional response and integrated it into his own, making it part of the work. The tattoo master who had trained him for over a decade had often used music to inspire the muse as he created on skin. Evan used the feedback from Niall’s heart, mind and soul to do the same now, following that orchestra to drive the fire in the dragon’s eyes, the defiant tilt of the head, the lifelike gleam of the scales as he mixed colors of gleaming golds and purples, blues and silver. They merged into one another like the glittering edges of an oil spill on pavement. The work was painstaking but all consuming, the tiny caps needing to be refilled often so the ink wouldn’t dry out.

If he had any doubt of Niall’s reaction to the additional claim Evan was putting on his flesh, the man’s aroused state spoke volumes. His cock was so turgid it brushed Evan’s elbow, his side. He’d stripped off his own shirt to enjoy the breeze, and feeling the damp tip of his servant’s organ sliding along his rib cage when he was leaning forward to ink him just added to the intensity of the experience. Once or twice he ran the heated side of the machine along the velvet shaft, making Niall flinch at the unexpected burn, the threat of the needle being used there. But then Evan set it aside and clasped the organ, sucking the moisture off the tip, giving him a firm lick that had Niall’s hands turning into fists again in his bonds, an oath whispering through his mind.

After Evan had completed the design around the sensitive nipple area, where the dragon’s precise claw overlapped the areola, he brought his bloodstained fingers to Niall’s lips. Niall sucked on them, taking the nourishment and what else was offered with them. Evan noted the skin was red around the nipple, but that would fade far more quickly than it would on an unmarked human.

It was done. Evan stared at the entire design for a few moments, but felt that click in his mind that told him there was nothing more needed. Tiny drops of blood beaded up on the dragon, the skin weeping. The bleed out was the necessary endstep to ensure the tattoo stayed sharp and clear. This was Niall’s blood. Evan’s had absorbed into the skin, helping the ink set, the unique scientific reaction between a third mark and his Master. He put a finger over a thicker drop and brought the small, tantalizing taste to his mouth. It had been hard work. He was hungry for his servant’s throat, but tonight he would feed Niall from his artery. His servant had earned the right to be nourished first, and a tattoo this complicated, integrated with a vampire’s blood, was akin to sustaining a wound. He would need the type of sustenance to rejuvenate only his Master could provide.

Evan stepped back, rolling his shoulders. He needed some distance from the blood or his fangs would start to lengthen. Picking up a bottle of water, he drank. It was cold. One of the wait staff must have changed it out.

Ye need to stay more alert. You’re the most unguarded vampire I know. His servant’s mindvoice was slurred, lethargic. Evan’s gut tightened, feeling a Master’s sweet satisfaction.

Think how easy it will be to stake me when you tire of my company.

Is that an option? I didnae get the memo.

Evan removed the blindfold. As he stroked his servant’s hair, Niall slowly opened his tawny eyes. The Scot might be aroused, every nerve ending alert to Evan’s demands upon his body, but emotionally he’d been spiraling on a different plane for some time. It was time to bring him back to earth.

Evan brought the bottle to Niall’s lips, cupping the back of his head. “Take a swallow, neshama.”