Ink & Arco - Chapter 1 (Elriel ff)
Surprise, surprise! Iâve been quietly working on this story for the past month, and I wasnât planning to share it just yet⌠but with all the heaviness lately, I couldnât hold back.
And honestly⌠who can resist a story laced with danger, dripping in intimate tension, and just the right amount of slow-burn heat? Shadows are gathering, secrets are stirring, and this is only the beginning.
Come lose yourself in the dark with me.
Feyre grinned like the devil. âA little neighborhood I discovered a few months ago. Isnât it charming?â
Elain gave her a look. âCharming isnât the word Iâd use.â
âAdmit it,â Feyre said, nudging her. âItâs got personality.â
âThatâs one word for it.â
They stopped just outside a building with blacked-out windows and a sign swinging overhead that read Midnights Ink in jagged silver lettering. Music thudded from inside, something bass-heavy and generic. Through the glass door, Elain spotted flashes of metal, gloved hands, and⌠needles.
âNo,â Elain said simply, starting back the way theyâd come.
Feyre grabbed her arm before she could make it two steps. âOh, come on.â
âNope. Absolutely not. Feyre.â
âYou brought me to a tattoo parlor? In this neighborhood?â
âYes. Obviously.â Feyre rolled her eyes as if this were the most reasonable plan sheâd ever concocted. âYou promised. No questions, no backing out.â
âI thought you meant a gallery. Or a bookstore. Maybe a wine bar,â Elain hissed, gesturing vaguely around them. âNot⌠permanent ink and possible tetanus.â
Feyre laughed. Actually laughed. âItâs one of the best places in the city. Relax. Youâre not getting tattooed tonight.â
âThatâs because Iâm not getting tattooed ever.â
Feyre just smirked. âThatâs what you say now.â
Elain crossed her arms over her white silk blouse as if that alone might shield her from the chaos inside. âThis is not a tattoo outfit. Look at me.â
âOh, I am,â Feyre said with a wink. âAnd so is literally everyone else. Youâre bringing ethereal Victorian ghost energy into a den of heathens. Itâs incredible.â
Elain groaned into her hands. âThis is a disaster.â
âItâs a bonding activity,â Feyre corrected. âNow come on. I promise you wonât regret it.â
âI already regret it.â
But Feyre was stronger than she lookedâyears of lugging canvases and supplies across campus had paid offâand before Elain could find another excuse, her sister had successfully hauled her through the door.
The door shut behind them with a soft chime, sealing Elain inside what was, against all expectation, not the dim, grimy den of ink-stained chaos sheâd been dreading. Quite the opposite.
The interior was startlingly elegantâan immaculate, modern space suffused with warm, ambient lighting that glowed from recessed fixtures in the ceiling, casting soft gold across matte-black walls. Panels of smoked glass divided the room into sleek sections, their translucent surfaces painted with fine, abstract linework that suggested more than they revealed. Even the air smelled refinedâclean, bright citrus layered over faint hints of leather and something darker, almost like cedarwood.
A long marble counter stretched across one side of the room, its surface pristine save for a few leather-bound sketchbooks stacked neatly at one end. Behind it stood a woman who, at first glance, looked as if she might have stepped from the pages of some high-concept fashion editorial rather than the reception desk of a tattoo studio.
Dark hair woven into a simple braid hung over one shoulder, the ends brushing the collar of a crisp black blouse. Her skin was a warm, smooth brown, and her features were sharply drawnâangular cheekbones, a slender nose, and striking brown eyes that narrowed just slightly as they fixed on Elain. Not in open hostility, no. Something quieter. Assessing. Like someone examining a piece of sheet music, searching for the first inevitable mistake.
Elain found herself standing a bit straighter under the weight of it, instinctively smoothing the hem of her white blouse. Elegant. Understated. Appropriate for a long afternoon spent cradling a violin under her chin. Completely out of place here.
"Hey, Emerie," Feyre greeted easily, sliding up to the counter with the familiarity of someone who had been here more than once. "Iâve got a six-thirty with Azriel."
Emerie gave a slow nod, her attention flicking briefly to the tablet before her, tapping something into the screen. "You're early."
Feyre grinned. "I come bearing a guest."
That earned Elain another look, longer this time. Unreadable. Not quite friendly. Not quite anything at all.
"You dragged her here?" Emerie asked, a wry curve tugging at her full mouth.
"Dragged is a strong word," Feyre said breezily. "She walked willingly."
"I did not," Elain murmured under her breath.
Emerie smirked like sheâd heard it anyway.
Elain cast her gaze deliberately around the shop, as if the fine details might somehow ground her. The sleek furniture: low leather seating in the waiting area, the sort of supple, expensive leather that only grew softer with time. The walls behind the counter were lined with framed designs, but these werenât the garish, aggressive images sheâd always associated with tattoo parlors. They were art. Minimalist, intricate, achingly beautiful in their restraint.
She took another breath. Counted it out like she would before a difficult passageâinhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four.
Maybe it wasnât the place sheâd feared.
Of course, she shouldâve expected it. Her sister had been threatening it for months now, dropping hints like stones into water to see how Elain might ripple in response. And sheâd tried not toâtried to stay neutral, supportive. But the thought of ink, permanent and unyielding, pressed beneath her sisterâs skin made something twist uncomfortably in her stomach.
âWhat are you getting?â she asked carefully, shifting to stand beside Feyre as Emerie disappeared through a door at the back, presumably to summon this mysterious Azriel.
Feyre tilted her head, her blue eyes glinting with mischief. "You'll see."
Elain suppressed a groan. "Cryptic."
And yet⌠part of her did, in that reluctant, inevitable way one loves the storm approaching the edge of a performanceâthe moment you know the downbeat will come, whether youâre ready or not.
She folded her arms, casting another glance around the shop. Behind the glass partitions, she could see vague silhouettes: a figure seated in one of the studio chairs, the faint hum of a machine somewhere beyond, its rhythmic buzz almost soothing, like the drone of a cello beneath the higher voices of the violins. The walls inside bore only muted, earthy tonesâcoal, slate, ochreâand everything felt curated. Intentional.
"Seriously though," Feyre said, leaning against the counter with casual grace, her brown hair spilling over her shoulder like melted caramel, her boots crossed at the ankle. "You should consider it. I think you'd look wicked with something delicate. LikeâŚa vine. Or a constellation."
Elain shot her a flat look. "I don't even have my ears pierced."
"Exactly. You're overdue."
Before Elain could respond, the door behind the counter swung open. Footsteps approached.
And Feyre straightened with a grin.
Elain smoothed her blouse again, heart tapping faster.
A faint shift of weight behind the frosted glass doorâa subtle, muted sound, like the rustle of silk over stone. And then the door eased open on soundless hinges, releasing a cool draft that smelled faintly of ink, clean metal, and something darker. Earthier. Like smoke clinging to worn leather.
The man who emerged was... striking. Arrestingly so.
Tall, built with a presence that seemed almost too large for the quiet luxury of the studio, he moved with the restrained power of someone who knew exactly how to handle every inch of his body. Not merely muscularâsculpted, as though some patient artist had carved each line of his frame from dark marble. His skin was golden-brown, smooth where it wasnât inked, the tattoos spiraling in elegant, precise designs down the visible length of his forearms and vanishing beneath the sleeves of a fitted, charcoal button-up rolled to his elbows.
But Elain's gaze snagged on his hands.
Brutal scars webbed the skin there, pale and jagged, partially hidden beneath a pair of black leather gloves with the fingertips cut away. Not to conceal the marks entirely, she realizedâbut enough to make a person question whether theyâd imagined them. Like shadows flickering at the edge of candlelight.
He had dark hair, long enough for the ends to curl over his forehead in careless waves, and a pair of small gold hoops glinted from his left ear. Minimal. Understated. But deliberate, like every other detail she was quickly cataloging against her better judgment.
And his faceâElain hardly dared stare, though some invisible force nearly demanded itâwas classically beautiful. Elegant, in a way that felt almostâŚincongruous with the rest of him. High, refined cheekbones; a strong, clean jaw; straight nose; and a mouth set in a line that hinted at something perpetually withheld. Like the remnants of a secret he refused to share.
Hazel. Not warm, not coldâsomething in between, a gold-flecked, shifting shade that sharpened as they landed on her. Steady and unreadable, like the surface of a lake undisturbed by wind. Elain felt the weight of his gaze pass over her with all the gentle brutality of a bow drawn across stringâsoft, but full of a tension that vibrated in the space between them.
And then, as if the moment had never happened, he looked away.
"Feyre." His voice was quiet, deep, and smooth as varnished mahogany. Dry, but not unfriendly. Measured. "You're early."
"Yeah," Feyre replied, that usual grin curling at the corner of her mouth. "Figured I'd get a head start on convincing you this isn't the worst idea I've ever had."
One of those dark brows lifted a fraction. "Debatable."
Feyre laughed, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "Come on, it's a good design."
He nodded once and gestured toward the back with a slight incline of his head. "You can set up."
And then those gold-rimmed eyes slid back to Elain. For a heartbeatâtwoâhe simply looked at her. Not rudely. Not curiously, even. JustâŚwith a stillness that was difficult to define.
Observing, perhaps. Weighing.
Elain kept her posture carefully relaxed under the scrutiny, her fingers gently clasping the strap of her violin's case like it might tether her to the floor. This was ridiculous. He was just a man. An artist. Someone Feyre knew, someone whose world she was only passing through for the briefest of moments.
Still, her pulse shifted, quiet as a whisper, and her gaze darted briefly to his hands again. The scars. The ink. The way his gloves creaked softly as his fingers flexed once, as though heâd caught her noticing.
He gave no sign of it, no acknowledgment beyond a subtle flick of his gaze away, dismissing her entirely as he turned back to Feyre.
With that, he disappeared down the hall, his broad shoulders cutting a clean line through the glass reflections, leaving only silence in his wake.
Feyre shot Elain a smirk as she passed. "Don't get lost."
But Elain barely heard her.
You can read the full chapter on AO3
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