Boruto Karma Seal Tattoo Novels & Stories

I go into business with my childhood friend, Ian Ziegler. The business is a success, earning 1.2 million dollars in profit. Ian gives me my share—a whopping 5,000 dollars. Noticing my dissatisfaction, Ian puts his arm around my girlfriend, Nina Foster, and tosses the keys to his Bentley onto the table. "What, is five grand too little for you? Fine. Since you're so broke, I'll give you a chance to turn things around for yourself. There's going to be a soccer game tonight. We're both going to place our bets. If you win, you can get all 1.2 million, plus my car. "But if you lose, your girlfriend's mine. You'll also have to get on your knees and lick my shoes right here in front of everyone." Everyone else in the room cackles gleefully, eager to watch me humiliate myself. Smirking, I nod. "Sure. I'll take that bet." These people have no idea that five years ago, I'd single-handedly taken down the Northwest Aravian illegal soccer betting circuit. I'd set a trap for a match-fixing syndicate, beating the crooks at their own game. I'd walked away from that life after that. But now, Ian has seriously decided to challenge me to a soccer bet?

Five months pregnant, I watched my fated mate’s foster sister pour oil on our sacred threshold and strike the spark. I didn’t reach for the pack-link. Last life, I screamed through our bond. Cassian—my Alpha, the wolf I’d followed since I was six—came for me. Pulled me from the flames while his foster sister burned to charcoal behind us. He said nothing against me, even arranged the best care for my pregnancy. But on the fourth night after our daughter was born, he dragged us to the Blood Moon altar. He stood upon the High Rock, silver fur gleaming in the dark, and gave the order. His enforcers pinned me to the stone. He watched, silent and still, as they lit the pyre beneath our daughter’s body first—then mine. "You let Eira burn," he said, while the flames devoured us. "So you burn with what you loved." When I opened my eyes, I was back on the floor of our burning den.

My husband's true love and I are trapped when a fire breaks out. He's a firefighter—when he arrives on scene, he chooses to save her without hesitation. I barely make it out alive. Once I do, I demand a divorce. He doesn't understand why. He asks, "Why do you want to divorce me? Because I didn't save you first?" I angrily throw the divorce agreement in his face. "Yes, that's exactly why! Because you chose to save your old flame when she was further from you!"

My dormmates are my bullies. When they hear that my father owns a factory, they force me to get them part-time jobs there for the summer. I look down at the wounds they've inflicted on me and smile. They've just served themselves up for slaughter—they've given me the perfect opportunity to get revenge on them. My father's factory isn't as great as they think—it's known for its strange happenings.

Seer Corvyn once foretold that House Ashveil would produce a daughter who could see the future. I hid the birthmark I was born with on my forehead, yet my younger sister painted a vivid mark on her forehead every single day. Then, a royal decree came, naming her the Crown Prince, Prince Caelen’s fiancée, and I married Prince Aldric, just like I had wanted. For the next five years, I used my ability to foresee the future to help Aldric rise to power. On the night he ascended the throne, I finally wiped away the layers of makeup and told him my secret. However, instead of relief, he flew into a rage. He carved the flesh from my forehead and had me executed. “Leanora, how dare you imitate Rosalind’s birthmark? If you hadn’t chosen me first, she would never have been forced to marry Caelen! She should have been my true queen! For five years, every moment I touched you has disgusted me. You shall die in her place.” When I opened my eyes again, Aldric burst in, cutting off Seer Corvyn mid-sentence. “How can a mark prove that Rosalind is the chosen one?” “I’m willing to use the blank royal decree Father once granted me to marry the Lord Chancellor’s illegitimate daughter, Rosalind Ashveil.”

Jenny posted a picture of me and her brother, who had an intellectual disability. The caption? "Finally, a happy ending!" The comments were all the same: "Is this your sister-in-law? She’s gorgeous!" I simply replied with a question mark, but Jenny ignored me and responded to someone else instead. "She's kinda my sister-in-law, yes!" It didn't take long for Steven to call me, his tone full of anger. "It was just a little edit, do you really have to blow things out of proportion?" Half an hour later, Jenny posted another photo of her sitting in Steven's luxury car, and even tagged me in it. "We may not be related by blood, but this big brother of mine has always been my rock!" Steven commented. "I'll always be here." I knew he was trying to get a rise on me on purpose to appease Jenny, but I didn't grace them with a reply this time. All I did was like the post and file for divorce.

On my wedding day, my fiancé’s childhood sweetheart arrived, wearing the exact same custom wedding dress as me. They stood together, greeting guests, while I smiled and praised them as a match made in heaven. Humiliated, she left the venue in tears. In her defense, my fiancé publicly accused me of being petty and unreasonable. After the wedding reception, he left with her for the honeymoon we had planned together. I didn’t cry. Instead, I called my lawyer immediately.

After being forced to donate the blood from my heart to my Alpha's beloved witch, I die in the cottage that he'd built for me. Before my death, my five-year-old daughter runs to the castle in the forest to beg him thrice. The first time, she runs into the study and tells him I'm coughing up blood. My mate, Alpha Alaric sneers. "Is this one of Clara's new tricks? I can't believe she taught a child to lie!" He orders his attendant to take our daughter away. The second time, she knocks on the door cautiously and tells him I'm trembling all over. Alaric snorts contemptuously. "What's with the act? All I did was take some of her blood, not gouge her heart out. She'll heal on her own soon enough!" Once again, his attendant chases our daughter out. The third time, she kneels by the study door and weeps, saying that I'm already unconscious. She begs Alaric to save me. This time, he gets mad. He grabs her by the arm and throws her out of the castle. "I told you your mother won't die! Lie to me again, and I'll kick her out of the Wolffang Pack. She can die at the hands of those Rogues!" He breaks her arm in the process, and she clutches it. She has no choice but to pass the family heirloom—a ring—that represents her identity as the Wolffang Pack's heiress to a passing merchant. "I can give you everything valuable I have, Mr. Merchant! I don't want to be an heiress—I just want my mother to stay alive!" The merchant accepts the ring and soon brings a herbalist. However, Alaric's beloved witch, Elena has him taken away. "Sorry, but your father is worried that I'll be upset because my darling black cat is sick. He's ordered all of the herbalists in the pack to focus on treating my cat first." She snorts. "Your mother can wait."

I died on the day I won the Global Medical Doctorate Award. Fresh from celebrating the sixteenth birthday of my younger sister, my parents, brother, and my fiancé finally returned home, but it was three hours after my death. My family photos were beaming with happiness on social media, while I laid in the suffocating basement drenched in blood. Before I died, I had struggled to slide my tongue across my phone screen in a desperate attempt to call for help. My parents and brother had blocked my number. Only my fiancé answered my call. The moment his voice came through, he snapped, "Winona, Winnie's sixteenth birthday is important. Stop trying to hijack attention with your pathetic excuses. Enough with the theatrics!" It murdered my last spark of survival. In that electronic death rattle, my heart flatlined. The 100th time they chose her. The 100th time they abandoned me for her. But it was also the last time. They thought I had ran way to get their attention again, and that if they taught me a harsh lesson, I would come crawling back pathetically. But not this time. Because I didn't leave home. I had been lying in the basement of my house.

Four days after my death, my four-year-old daughter finally sensed that something was terribly wrong. The fridge door slammed into her forehead when she tried to get a snack. Normally, I would've been there in a heartbeat—arms open, kisses ready, whispering, "You're okay, sweetheart, Mommy's here." But this time, I just lay on the bed, cold and still.​ She didn't understand. She thought the sweet treat would make me respond. So she held the final piece of chocolate up to my mouth. "Here, Mommy. Have some chocolate..." But I didn't even blink. She climbed into my arms, clutching my clothes tightly. "Mommy... Mommy, wake up..." She waited for me to stroke her hair, to tell her that everything was going to be fine. There was only silence.​ Completely lost and scared, she found my phone. "Daddy, why is Mommy still sleeping?" she asked, her voice filled with desperation.​ In response, Oliver sent a photo of himself having Christmas Eve dinner with his childhood sweetheart. His voice was icy cold when he replied, "She's just sleeping, not dead. It's Christmas Eve, and I'm busy. Tell her to stop playing games and come apologize when she's done sulking." Then he hung up.​ But when the truth finally hit Oliver—when the coroner's report came, when the police knocked on his door right in the middle of his laughter, when he realized I'd been lying dead for four days while he toasted—he broke.