Every Saint Has A Past Tattoo Novels & Stories

Maya waggled her brow at Jared as he stepped out of the dressing room, looking like a stereotyped bad boy and ticking off all the boxes with his denim jacket which was opened showing off chiseled muscleks and surprisingly a tattoo, though it was an inscription that puzzled her: I want to be your everything except but one thing, Your past. It was very poetic and in all the tats did do Justice to the whole bad boy imagery that was being projected. "Howdy," she taunted, adding a wave and stifling giggle for good measures. He groaned and she chuckled.

This is impossible. “Leave my office right away. You are a really insane man. Do you realize how sensitive this concept is” I said. “Yes. That is why I am here to help you” he drew up his sleeves a bit, revealing a tattoo he had on his hand. It was exactly the same tattoo my father had at the same spot on his arm. My father belonged to a small group of rich men when he was alive. And they all had the same tattoo on their hand. There were only four in that group, and I heard that only one of them was alive.

Saint gives me a dumbfounded look. "Of course I don't. This thing will heal very soon," Saint says, moving his eyes to the bite in my shoulder, "Sooner than we'd like. But at some point, you will realize you liked being bitten and marked by me, you'll ask for it. It will come a point where you're always marked and you'll start craving it."

Katherine pov For me, the sexiest spot a tattoo can be found is on a man’s rib and of course his fingers. I’ve heard a number of time how painful getting one on those spots can be, maybe that’s why I find it sexy. But is that why I can’t tear my eyes off this hot dude across this counter as well?

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”

Me staring at a naked guy for the second time in my damn life. My breath caught in my throat, trapped. I was trapped. My eyes completely rebelled against my brain's frantic commands to look the fuck away. Instead, they traced the dark, heavy ink of a tattoo etched across his upper shoulder blades. Three words, bold and unyielding: "Built Through Pain." The script wasn't flashy or arrogant. It felt heavy. It looked like a scar turned into art—a quiet testament to something survival-driven. A strange, unbidden ache blossomed in my chest just looking at it.

''Take off your shoes,'' I blurted. He didn’t move. I knelt down and tugged at them myself. Left shoe. Right shoe. Socks. He grunted something about pressure and bent down to pull off his coat. Then his shirt. And my brain flatlined. Tattoos covered his torso, ink winding through muscle and scar tissue in ways that were impossible not to stare at. A hawk spread its wings across his ribs, bold and dark. A skull, a rose, some Latin phrases. And beneath it all, scars. Faded lines that told stories I couldn’t begin to imagine.

She asked as she realized that he hadn't finished zipping up the zipper on her dress. "That tattoo, what does that mean?" With his thumb, he touched it gently. When she felt his touch, she involuntarily brought her right hand to the back of her neck, thus accidentally touching Carlos' hand. "It means... never give up." She pulled away a little, but felt it when his hand on her waist brought her closer to him, and so he finished closing her dress. "Now it's my turn!" Carlos placed two different colored ties in front of her. "Um, red."

Why did it have to be that one? Noticing my gaze, Brooke touched the beads lightly and smiled. "Beautiful, isn't it? "Zeke's grandmother got this for him as a blessing of protection. After what happened last time, he was so worried that he gave it to me instead." His grandmother's blessing? Was that what he told her? I turned to Zeke, and my eyes were burning red. Even so, he looked completely indifferent. "It's just a bracelet. You can find them everywhere." Just a bracelet?

Every shadow felt like a trap. When we turned the last corner, headlights flared from the pier. Trucks waited in the mist, black, low, heavy with armor plating. Santo’s men stood in the glow, cigarettes burning bright in the dark. He stepped out from the center. Older now, thicker around the middle, but still dangerous. Tattoos crawled up his neck like ghosts, and a gold cross hung against his chest. When he saw me, something soft flickered behind his eyes before it vanished again. “You look just like your father,” he said. “Same eyes. Same mistakes.” He smiled, holding his arms open to me. “He told me to stay away from you,” I said, walking up to him.