Stuff like this comes out of my keyboard when I don’t feel like writing. ;)
She leaned close to the mirror and examined the tattoo. It covered up the scar very well, distracted the eye with intricate whorls and angles of black ink.
Her man appeared in the mirror, right behind her shoulder. His tattoo was white, bright against the inky darkness of his skin. It made a pretty pattern of slashes and dots on his throat and arms.
He put both hands on her shoulders. “Ready?”
She turned, met his red eyes. The eyes of a hunter; the eyes she would soon have. “Yes.” This had been decades in the coming, but she was ready now.
The room was prepared, clean, the knives sharp and the drains cleared.
She stripped and lay down; the paper crinkled under her.
Her maker ran his fingers over her throat. She tracked the movement of his hands when he stroked his knuckles down her arm.
She gasped when he slashed her wrists open. The wound hurt. He held her down, pinned her arms to the table so she wouldn’t move. She flexed her fingers against the steel of the table, trying to block the pain. But soft whimpers escaped from her.
Warm blood gushed down the drains. Her vision went black at the edges. Her last sight was of her man being led in and lying down in the table next to her.
They would be together.