“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” I said flatly.

He let out a slow breath as if he was trying real hard not to tell me how stupid that was. Then, he simply said, “Head down.”

I leaned forward so the back of my neck was fully exposed.

He disinfected the area quickly, then pressed the stencil against my skin, holding it in place for a beat before peeling it back.

“Take a look,” he said after a pause, holding up a mirror. “Make sure it’s where you want it.”

I glanced at the reflection. The bold black outline of the letter B rested perfectly at the base of my neck—simple and clean.

Beverly leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying it with an unreadable expression. “That’s gonna be there forever.”

I met her gaze in the reflection. “I know.”

Dean sighed. “Alright, let’s make it official.”

The machine hummed to life, and Beverly, clearly amused, propped her chin in her hands. “Blake McHayes,” she drawled with a sly smile, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Officially signed up for a lifetime of servitude.”

“Just ignore her,” Dean muttered as the buzzing intensified. “And stay still.”

I clenched my hands into fists, preparing for the sting.

“You nervous?”

“No.”

Beverly made a doubtful noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, you should be,” she sing-songed.

I scoffed. “It’s a tiny letter, B. I’m not dying.”

“Uh-huh.” She settled into the chair beside me, tucking her legs beneath her. “You say that now.”

I side-eyed her.

“So,” she mused, chin resting in her palm again. “Tell me, Blake. Does this mean I own you now?”

“Beverly.”

“Because it kinda seems like it.”

I didn’t answer.

“You know what this means, right?” she went on, tapping her fingers against her knee. “Every time some girl asks you what it stands for, you have to say my name. Every. Single. Time.”

I could hear the satisfaction in her voice, the kind of smugness that only came when she knew she had the upper hand.

The artist chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

I laughed. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Or,” Beverly continued, “you could lie. Tell people it stands for brilliant or brooding boy⁠—”

“Keep talking, and I’m getting your full name.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Beverly narrowed her eyes.

Then, slowly, she smiled. “Oh my God,” she murmured, as if something had just clicked. “You are obsessed with me.”

The needle met my skin, sharp but bearable.

“Don’t flinch,” Dean said, his tone sharp.

I didn’t. Not when the needle bit into my neck, not when Beverly’s eyes widened with something dangerously close to admiration, and not even when she quietly inched closer, her hand resting just barely against my arm like she couldn’t help herself.

“Does it hurt?” she asked innocently.

“No.”

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean hummed.

“Can I add something?”