Micah couldn't bring himself to complain about Ophilia's clothing. Her shameless lack of attire let him see more of her artwork. On her stomach, Venus rose from the waves. Half covered by the slick leather of her halter, an Asian poet rested on her right shoulder. Bonaparte rode a mule on her left. Each work of art inked into her skin was pinned at the corners by small, silvery studs. Whoever had done the artwork had worked the pins into the designs, making her seem clothed in the works of ages.
Even her temples were tattooed, an image of Rodin's Thinker on the right, paired hands drawing each other on the left. They were hard to see for the hair that escaped from her bun. Her hair was the color of a raven's wing, with broad, green streaks highlighting the luster of it, purple ribbons woven throughout. Tiny bells, attached to each other by gossamer-thin silver chains, danced up and down the shells of her ears, making music as she moved. A final stud pierced the bridge of her nose, suspending three tiny ruby teardrops. Huge sea-green eyes were made even more dramatic by the dark eye makeup she favored. Full, cherry red lips pursed as she studied a new portion of the triptych. She was as much a work of art as she was an artist.
And whether she knew it or not, she was his to protect.