The Red Sleeve Cuff Novels & Stories

Cassian released me, walking toward the men. As he moved, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the feared tattoo of the red-eyed raven. I could hear the men around us holding their breath at that moment. Cassian hooked a finger under the knot of his tie, loosening it, then unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. "Now, who will be first?" Cassian circled behind the chairs, his hands casually in his pockets, his posture relaxed as his steps echoed across the smooth wooden floor.

Doom reacted. "Well, not going to lie, the sleeve part is my favorite. Also, the color palette is simple and uncomplicated," I once remembered I painted myself wearing all of the suits in each class. The bolt blue Keeper suit with elbow-length sleeves and hip-length cut, which I used to wear when I was a Keeper 9 years ago. The red-purple gradient Weaver suit with cropped layers, geometric cuts, and patterns made my complexion dark. The Herald's yellow-green long ankle-length fit with random ribbons on its sleeve—which I was accustomed to for the whole nine years—didn't make any impact on me. And wearing black and white leathery, single-sleeved, armor-like suits makes me look young and edgy.

I took off the cufflinks and rolled my sleeve to my elbow as I stared at the scar that ran down my wrist. It was a deep scar that ran deep to the other side of my arm. Love. I scoffed, rolling back my sleeves as I smirked. There was no such thing.

His Russian accent appears, curling around the words with smoky intent. In seconds he’s undone the cuff link for his right wrist, slipping it into his pocket, then begins rolling up the sleeve before doing the same for his left one. I’m trying not to stare at the tattoos running over his forearms. How had they been hiding just below the surface without any hint they were there? I shake my head—words won’t come. Anticipation is twisting in my stomach then spreading low, there at the apex of my thighs. This can’t be. No, not at the idea of him punishing me.

Tony cleaned up and left shortly thereafter. Since I was going to a Council meeting I showered again. Vampires were notorious for smelling sex on you and then telling you about it. I dressed in red. The Council had no sense of style so I liked to show them a thing or two. I wore a red, sleeveless turtleneck and red pants that were super tight over my ass and thighs but flared out gradually at the knees until they showed only the tip of a red snakeskin shoes. A red duster completed the ensemble. I wore a gold watch encrusted with rubies and two of my favorite rings.

"Don't you want me to undress first, Master? Once the cuffs are in place…" He cants his head, eyelids drooping a little. "Do as you're told, Elizabeth." Nonplussed, I offer a wrist. Sliding the sleeve of my blouse up my arm, he slips the cuff into place, tightening the buckles, enclosing my wrist and lower arm. Heavy-duty leather, but soft and supple, smelling of new. A carabiner dangles, clinking against the steel of a buckle. "Comfortable?" "Yes, Master." "Wriggle your fingers."

"What color?" "Silver," he said. "Latents don't do that. Wolves don't do that." He let go of me and went to his dresser fast. He pulled out a thick leather cuff, like a wide bracelet, and came back to the bed. "Give me your wrist," he said. "Why?"

His clothes were a mix of black and red, a perfect reflection of him: Bold intimidating, and edged with menace. A high collared sleeveless black coat hung from his broad frame, the deep crimson lining flashing whenever he moved, and beneath it, a fitting black shirt stretched over a frame that was built more for power than agility. Jagged crimson patterns ran down the sleeves, resembling claw marks or veins of spreading corruption. His pants were dark as the abyss and had the same tattered red designs near the edges as if dipped in blood and left to dry. He wore heavy boots with crimson laces to match his clothes. Around his neck hung a single warn necklace, just a simple chain and battered

I've taken the one book off the one man in this territory who never needed a book to be believed. When I put my hands over my face, the cuff of my jacket hung wrong against my cheek. There's a piece torn out of my sleeve, from the wrist nearly to the elbow. Dark green wool. Mine. I know exactly where it is.

The cufflink on his sleeve polished gold, engraved with the insignia of a red “V.” And scrawled on the back of the photograph in faint, feminine handwriting: “He promised it wasn’t just a show.” She stared at the photo until her fingers shook. The man in the image looked young, clean-cut, but the cufflink was the giveaway. Isolde had seen that symbol before. Not in archives. Not in police files. She’d seen it on the lapel of a man who stood beside Dorian at a charity gala three years ago. Vivienne hadn’t even been gone yet.