Knuckles Turning Black Novels & Stories

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.

Coming out of a blackout was always a painful experience, both physically and emotionally. Color blossomed like newborn flowers at the start of spring, sharpening before my eyes until the hallway with it’s vaulted ceilings and the lockers, as black as the raven in the University’s crest, came into view. I blinked a few times, flexing my fingers which brought on a sharp sting of pain that chased away the last of the grogginess. Ouch, that really hurt. With a frown, I looked down at my hands. The skin covering my knuckles was bruised and split in some places. There was blood speckled along my fingers, and I had a sickening feeling it wasn’t just my own.

My head rings, and my vision blurs from the strike. My ears ring as I fumble on the ground. What the hell? His hits are hard, too hard. I look at his gloves and notice the tape around his knuckles outlining more than knuckles. Faint gold shining through split tape I realize why he's hitting with such force. He has fucking brass knuckles on! "Hey!" I yell at the guy standing outside the ring, trying to inform him of the knuckles. I run to the other side of the ring, wiping and smearing blood from my eye from my face.

It was the fierce glare of a wolf whose line had been crossed. His hands were a more visible sign. His knuckles were white, his veins bulging. His nails dug deep marks into his palms. He didn't even notice the small beads of blood forming. His heart felt trapped, making it hard to even breathe.