Risk Taker Tattoo Novels & Stories

All that went through my head were the bright blue eyes with his hair so soft falling over his shoulder the tattoo looking like an extension of the grotesque strands of heavy strokes making him a unique work of art. Discovering that after so many years there is still something beating inside your chest was like opening a grenade knowing that the explosion would destroy everything. In that bar, seeing the predatory look, I already knew the danger he represented the ferocious animal looking for a fight at the height, one which I felt the challenge to provide, I tried uselessly to believe that it was dangerous for my plans, to undo the constant desire.

“Alright, my love. Anything for you.” It was too easy, the way he said it. And though part of me wanted to believe him, another part knew Grant’s version of “handling things” often came with blood and fire. But for now, I chose peace. I chose the illusion. “Alright, you’re set,” the tattooist said finally, pulling her gloves off. She handed me a mirror, and I craned awkwardly to see. Daddy’s was inked in delicate red script right where only he would see it. It was beautiful. Dangerous. Ours.

On the screen, I saw the same bird tattoo boldly drawn. "Yes, that's it! That's the tattoo I was referring to," I exclaimed. Camara looked at me and bowed her head. "This tattoo belongs to a gang leader in Texas," she revealed in a low tone. "His name is Fabian, a gang of assassins. He's usually used by powerful men to end the life of their greatest enemy at any time," Camara explained. I was confused, and my face showed it. "But who could be using him to attack Juliet now?" I wondered aloud.

It almost fell like running as a wolf, but a lot louder. “So what tattoo do I have to get?” Cyrus asked curiously. I knew he just wanted another excuse to get a tattoo. I would have never chosen this bet, I didn’t care what tattoo he got. Tattoo’s weren’t really my thing. I liked how they look on other people, but I would never get one. Especially not as many as Cyrus, his whole body was almost covered. But if he liked it, who was I to judge? Riker shifted back and I handed him his shorts. “What about an Iron River tattoo?”

He motions towards my tears then to the tiny diamond ring lying on the napkin. "I'm okay," I slowly assure the stranger. My words do not sound believable. I turn away, wiping more tears from my cheeks. Thoughts of John enter my mind. His sandy blonde hair pulled into a man-bun on top and freshly shaven on the sides and back. Him shirtless as he loved others to witness the rewards of his hard work at the gym. Him proudly crossing his arms across his chest, drawing attention to the dragon with skull tattoo and full sleeves as he strides toward me. His washboard abs flexing, drawing attention to his low-riding jeans. With each step, his abdominal tattoo, ‘Take No Prisoners,’ flashing like a neo

“We’re headed back to the packhouse, but I wanted to get an appointment for my back piece. What… uh, what are you getting a tattoo of?” “A rose and a dagger.” Carly says for me. “Any special meaning?” He leans a hand on the door frame. I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed. “Over the past year, I’ve learned the beauty of the journey is worth the danger.” Why does telling him feel like I’m exposing a big secret? “What’s more beautiful than a rose or more dangerous than a dagger?” “And it will look something like this,” Cason interrupts the awkward interaction. I gasp at the drawing. It’s better than what I explained. It’s exactly what I imagined. “Th-that’s it. It’s perfect.”

At least they will get to share something special together. My red dress clings tightly to my figure and frames my cleavage, the slit up the side making my family tattoo visible. The tattoo is of a fighting wolf and snake, their bodies entwining around my thigh. It’s our mark of honor as alpha daughters, usually appearing when we come of age. Mine made its debut on the night my mother died.

I mumbled against his chest, inhaling his strong cologne mixed with his musky scent which made me lick my lips involuntarily. Fuck, did he always smell this good? “Never. I’m not brave like you to take a chance even if it means to get hurt. I’m a coward, Hazel.” “What do you mean?” “The girl I like, I could have told her that I liked her but I was afraid that she wouldn’t feel the same way and now it’s just too late.”

Henry looked at me quietly, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human. “Where?” I lifted a finger and shakily pointed a little lower on my back, toward those faintly visible indentations. It was an extremely private and extremely sensitive place. “I… I want to tattoo it on my lower back.” The moment the words left my mouth, I saw Henry’s pitch-black pupils contract sharply, narrowing to needle points. The sudden sense of danger made my skin prickle. … “Whoa… Who’s excited?” “Lower back! So scandalous!”

I bow my head, pretend to focus on the screen. "You were staring," he says in a low, amused voice. He leans against my desk, arms crossed, towering over me. "My tattoos interest you?" I shake my head, too quickly. "No, I… it's nothing." He chuckles softly. "Liar." He pulls up the left sleeve of his t‑shirt, revealing more of the raven and other symbols: a miniature cathedral, eight‑pointed stars, Cyrillic numbers. "Every design has a story. The raven… it's for memory. For those we've lost, but never forget. The stars are rank. The cathedral… the faith you keep even when everything else goes to hell."