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“Do they hurt?” Zoey’s fingers trace the jagged, faded edges of the patterns running over Rumi’s collarbone, down her shoulder until Rumi shudders with it, the sensation overwhelming.
Of course Zoey’d be the one who thinks to ask that, just like Mira’s the one who drools over how badass they look, how sexy they make every exposed sliver of skin.
“That doesn’t hurt,” Rumi promises, her voice roughened, not thinking of the only thing that did, of their faces when they first saw those marks; way better to focus on all the fun they’re having making up for it now.