Sinful Ink Novels & Stories

SINNER’S PRAYER (G×G) EVELYN HARPER & LUCIA VALDEZ EVE I have always known I was damned. Every Sunday I sit in the same pew, third from the back on the left, fingers worrying the rosary beads in my lap while Father Michael speaks of mortal sin and the fires that wait for the unrepentant. I nod along, my lips moving silently through the responses, but my mind is elsewhere. My gaze drifts to the stained-glass windows, to the painted lips of the female saints—lips I have imagined pressed against my own in the dark of my bedroom while I touch myself and then cry into my pillow afterward.

“She should be grateful. Falconeri money changes everything.” My skin prickled. I kept my head down. My mother, Elizabeth Rossi, stood at the altar glowing in white satin. She looked like she belonged in a magazine. When her eyes found mine, I caught the plea in them. Don’t ruin this for me. I sat straighter. The doors opened. Marcelo Falconeri walked in. Tall. Silver at the temples. Black suit pressed sharp. The room hushed. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Two women behind me whispered again.

I moaned, grinding my hip to create more friction. He pushed in harder, breaking every part of my insides. Sounds of our skin slapping, rubbing echoed in my ears, "Hmm. Fuck Olivia you are so fucking tight" Lucian rasped, gripping my hip in place "And so beautiful, and the best part you are mine and mine alone."

She had placed her wine glass on the table and now sat on a velvet couch, her posture perfect, her eyes fixed on Grace like a predator on its prey. Grace's hands trembled as she held up her tablet. Her head was still bowed, a silent apology for her previous failures. "Yes, ma'am. This man is a professional. He is not like the others. They are just… people looking for a paycheck. This man is an artist. He is invisible. He leaves no trail. And he gets results, always." Miriam leaned forward, a single, manicured hand gesturing for Hannah to bring the tablet closer. "Show me," she commanded, the word a soft, cold whisper.

Barely perceptible in the morning light. "The old ink formula is iron salts and oak gall. When it dries, it leaves a brownish residue under the fingernails. It cannot be washed away. Marcus wrote the Code with this ink for two hundred years. His fingers are forever stained brown." He raised his eyes. His silver-grey pupils held a faint, pale glimmer. "That is your next lesson. His habits. His flaws. Every detail may one day become your blade." Cain said nothing. His hand moved from his sword hilt. He reached over and took the cold coffee from Luna's hand.

The club was called Velvet Sin— an underground gem hidden in the heart of the city’s most exclusive district. From the outside, it looked like any high-end lounge. Inside, it was a temple of temptation. Dim crimson lighting bathed the stage. Slow, sensual music pulsed through the air. The scent of expensive perfume, whiskey, and raw desire hung heavy. Men in tailored suits and women in designer dresses filled the velvet booths, but all eyes were on the stage. And on **her**.

His abs looked… Well, let’s just say they looked like they were carved to ruin my sanity. Hard and defined, like lines of chocolate molded with care. Heat rose into my cheeks. Stop thinking like a pervert, Zerina. Then he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles gently against my cheek. The touch made my breath hitch. “What a bold little wife,” he murmured. “And well, I’m not complaining.” His smile turned slow and sinful — the kind of smile that could melt any woman alive. “C-Close your eyes,” I stammered. “They’re... they're kinda distracting for me.”

​The smell of the new batch was rancid and heavy, filling the locomotive shed with the sharp, toxic tang of industrial petroleum and old friction. Yusuf hoisted the tin bucket onto the workbench, splashing a thick, viscous dollop of the black sump-sludge onto our mixing slate. It didn't look like ink; it looked like the blood of a dead machine—viscous, iridescent under the cracked skylight, and clinging to the wooden spatula with stubborn weight.

In the darkness, she promised herself that she was going to make him regret ever taking her. Serena had spent hours in the dark, her wrists were aching and her mind was racing. She replayed everything she knew about Lucian Moretti. She had heard he was Ruthless and Calculating but most of all, Dangerous. He wasn’t just another enemy in her father’s long list of rivals, he was the kind of man who didn’t play fair.

"If I don't pass out in the process. Oh, look. Black sand is leaking out now. That's not one I can translate." "That's the disinfectant working. It's something I cooked up while trying to make sparkly ink for my Marking. It purges hex magic." Ink explained as he used the cloth to wipe up the black sand and the bubbling black goo coming out of Priest's wounds. "It doesn't look like he got this in every cut but I'm going to treat them all. Just in case."