Knuckles Turning Black Novels & Stories

I heard that you should be most careful of the people who don't look like they are capable of doing something but I guess I took that really lightly. My hands flexed into fists so hard that my nails were digging in my skin and soon I felt dripping liquid from my palm. I looked down to see that my nails were so deep in the skin that they caused bleeding but you know what, I didn't feel any pain. It was like I was numb.

That way no one would come back in years to come. He rendered himself unrestrained and grabbed the first man who had attacked him by the collar, throwing him in the direction of the other two men who were heading towards him. The man flew into the air and fell on both of them. Throwing them all into the floor. Nikolai didn’t wait for them to recover and stand to their feet. He twisted the rings on his fingers, turning them into brass knuckles. He punched the first man who came close to him, smashing his nose, damaging his face to the point that it was unrecognizable, and holding his head on both sides before twisting his neck. The man grew limp almost instantly and he quickly drops it and tu

Thick veins ran along the backs of his hands and coiled around his forearms, rising beneath the skin every time he flexed his fingers. Black ink disappeared beneath his shirt cuff, climbed over his wrist, and wrapped around his forearm in intricate patterns I couldn't fully make out. His hands were enormous. Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. A thin white line cut across one of them, and another crossed the back of his hand. Those were hands that had broken bones. Maybe necks. Judging by the way he sounded earlier, mine would probably be next. His hands rested casually inside his pockets, yet somehow they looked more dangerous than the knife I was hiding beneath Alessandro's own oversized shirt

He sat down. He rolled the wet sleeves of his white shirt past his elbows. His knuckles were bruised, the skin split and crusted with dried blood. Luna did not turn her head. Killian reached out and pulled the heavy black coat back from her legs. The cold air hit her soaked clothes. She shivered harder. Her left ankle jutted out from the frayed, muddy denim. It was swollen to the size of a baseball, the skin stretched tight and shining a bruised purple.

He turned to face my direction as soon as he heard my footsteps, his scowl deepened even further at my nearing presence. I got to him, picking up his injured hand. Now that I was closer, I saw that he had busted knuckles too. They were freshly bruised and stained with blood, definitely indicating that he had either gotten into a fight or punched something hard. "It's bleeding. You have a splinter." I pointed out and he looked down on it, showing no reaction whatsoever. "Your knuckles are also bruised, did you fight?" He didn't say anything and instead flicked his hand away from mine. All he did was wipe away the dripping blood with his other palm and went back to smoking.

Paid without asking me, tucked them under his arm, and walked back to the bike like it was nothing. "You didn't have to do that," I said. "I know," he said, securing them to the bike. I watched his hands while he worked. The knuckles on his right hand were split and bruised, the skin broken in two places, dark underneath. I had noticed it last night but we had been otherwise occupied and I hadn't asked. "Dylan," I said. "Mm." "Your knuckles." He glanced down at his hand. "What about them?"

Sera My knuckles ached with a dull, heavy pulse. I looked down at my hands. The skin across my knuckles was completely split. Thick, dark blood coated my fingers, dripping slowly onto the packed dirt. It wasn't my blood. I stepped off Taya. My boots squelched in the mud we had created from frost and sweat.

I pushed it open and stepped inside. He was standing by his window, his back to me. He was in the process of pulling his t-shirt over his head, and my throat went completely dry, as the shirt came off, I saw a nasty, purplish bruise bloom high on his right side, just under his ribs. It was ugly and dark against his skin. My eyes flew to his hands. His knuckles… the knuckles of his right hand were raw, split open, and crusted with dried blood.

His knuckles went white. "Kieran?" He didn't answer‍. His breathing got weir⁠d. Fast and shallow⁠. ‍Then I‌ saw it. ⁠ Black lines crawli​ng up h‌is neck. Like ink spreading under hi⁠s skin. They mov‌ed. Actual‍ly m‌oved. Twisting an⁠d spreading and rea‍ching toward‍ his jaw.​ "What the‍ h⁠e‌ll—"

I blinked, trying to see what was happening, and Kral had already made several bloody holes in Nick. Kral's black shirt was stained with blood, and the knuckles on his knife hand bulged. Each time he made a cut, it was precise and quick, and there was not a trace of hesitation or emotion in his movements. A dull thump rang out, turning the white hilt of his knife red.