Novelas y relatos de Mark

"You are Mine" He murmured across my skin. He inhaled my scent deeply and kissed the mark he gave me. I shuddered as he lightly nipped it. "Kirsten, you are mine and only mine, you understand?" Kirsten Saunders had a pretty rough life. After being heartbroken and betrayed by both her father and boyfriend, Kirsten moves to a small town to find the comfort of her mother.

A bit forced though. Message recieved. Too personal questions offlimit. Mark returned the smile and got up from the couch. He needed to check if the weather is great for a good outing. He gazed out of the window....and froze. "Shit! She's here again!" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE "What do you mean, mate mark?" Jamima inquired, perplexed. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she knew one thing for sure: whatever he was talking about was serious, or he wouldn't have made the effort to bring her here despite his busy schedule. "Yeah, mate mark!" Daniel took her hands in his and gently squeezed them. "Mate mark is a label that indicates you already have someone you love and that you belong to him/her. Mate mark also functions as a strength and weakness indicator for your mate.

Emma moaned, pushing her back toward the wand, the plug shifting inside her as her hips rocked. “Almost done,” Mark said, voice calm and certain. He moved the tip down the small of her back, filling in the spaces between the words, making the lettering bold and permanent-looking. The third baby kicked hard beneath her skin, right where the ink would sit, and she felt it as if the new mark was claiming that spot too. “There. Done. It looks so real now, even though it will wash off in a week or two. But the feeling… that’s forever.”

I turned it over. On the back, cut with a fine tool, was a tiny mark I had seen only once before. Three short lines inside a circle. "Kaelan," I said. He did not turn around. "Tell me it is nothing." "I cannot." I stood up slowly, holding the token out on my flat palm as if it might bite. "This is not a pack token. Every pack token has the crest on both sides. This one has a private mark on the back." Marcus went very still. "Let me see."

I glare at him mortified. “Oh it’s not what you think” he says in a panic seeing the look on my face “It’s doctors orders!! Dr Woods told me that you can’t physically cope with mating or marking for at least a week. He made some colourful and very vivid threats against my manhood if I even tried before you had seen him again. I thought he told you too” “No he did not” I say trying to hide how relieved I am that it’s not because he doesn’t want to.

“Louder this time. The walls listen.” I swallowed. “Our bodies are vessels,” I recited, voice obedient, familiar words scraping my throat. “Our blood is borrowed. Our breaths are offerings. We are the chosen keepers of the Mark, the last gate between this world and the hunger beneath it.” “And the Mark?” she prompted. The skin on my left shoulder prickled as if it heard her. “The Mark is not a curse,” I said. “The Mark is the seal.” Mother Elara’s gaze softened, but not with affection. With reverence. With fear.

Sure enough, buried among a stack of completed emails was my application to leave the pack. His signature was right there, plain as day. The date was the same day we ran into each other at the pack administration office. That day, all of Marcus's attention had been on Clara. He hadn't even bothered to ask why I had come to the administration office in the first place. Thinking back to the sudden, unexplained tightness in his chest a few days earlier, he finally understood. That had been the moment the mate bond was severed. Cold sweat instantly broke out across Marcus's forehead.

Their howls died into silence, leaving only the rasp of our breathing, the stink of blood, and the broken bodies around us. Marek appeared at the treeline, flanked by his hunters. His grin was wide, proud, almost admiring. “You bleed well, rogue,” he said. “You fight well. Maybe too well.” His eyes gleamed as they fixed on me. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” And I knew — this was only the beginning.

Vince came to stand beside her, hands in pockets, posture a soft bracket. “You all right?” he asked, quiet enough to belong to a kitchen table at midnight. She exhaled. The breath felt like surrender and claim both. “Yes.” Marco joined them, wiping rain from his brow with the back of his hand. “He had a Maretti mark,” he said. “Yeah,” she said.