He laughed, so loud it startled the cat. “I’m tempted to do that, with a Sharpie, just to see the look of horror on your face.” He sobered. “Is that a yes? Or are you kidding in hopes of changing the subject?”

I leaned in to kiss him. “No games, remember? I would be honored to have a permanent place on your body. And, yes, I know the tattoo isn’t about expecting anything permanent. It’s memorializing me.”

He sputtered a laugh. “That makes it sound as if you’re dead. It’s like the rest of my tattoos—marking someone or something significant in my life.”

“I want one, too.” I rolled half onto his chest, looking down at him. “Like we discussed.”

“You don’t have to, Liv.”

“I want to.”

He studied my face, then gave a slow smile. “Okay. But I’m going to insist you get a small design, something easily hidden. I have an idea, too.”

He reached down for my jeans and pulled something from the pocket. It was the boar’s tusk given to me by one of the Cwn Annwn.

He’d first seen it the night we’d heard the Wild Hunt, and I remembered the fascination glittering in his eyes as he’d turned it over in his hand. A gut-level recognition that this was significant somehow. Like his grandmother’s stories of the Hunt.

I should have known what he was.

The girl was right. I had known. Deep down.

He pointed to a symbol on the tusk—a Celtic-style sun and moon, intertwined. “For my tattoo, I’d like this. It reminds me of you. Don’t ask me why. It just does.”

The sun and the moon. Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. Two halves of my whole.

I ran my fingers over the engravings of the moon. The symbol of the Cwn Annwn. Ricky’s symbol. It fit him. It always had, and maybe it wasn’t what I wanted for him, but it was him. There was no changing that. For Ricky, then, I chose this design. When I said that, I thought he’d ask why, but he only nodded, looking pleased.

I put the tusk aside. “Okay, so we have the design. Where should I put it?”

His grin was devilish now as he rolled me onto my back. “Well, that’s going to take some exploration. If the spot’s too hard, it’ll hurt too much. Too soft, and it’s really not going to look as good in thirty years.”

I stretched out, hands behind my head, covers kicked off. “Explore away. I trust your judgment.”

—

I woke to the buzz heralding a text message. As I reached for my phone, I glanced out the window. It was pitch-black . . . except for a faint glow from Rose’s house. Shit.