Romans & histoires Thorfinn Dagger Tattoo

he said quietly, “or something else?” Winter walked even closer, his cloak whispering against the stone. He took the dagger from August’s hand, turning it slowly in his palm. The blade was flawless, the runes etched along its length ancient and unfamiliar—symbols that spoke of Torrine’s old bloodlines. He traced a thumb along the edge, testing its sharpness, and a cold, mirthless smile curved his lips. “A declaration of war?” he murmured, voice low, almost amused. “A threat to my son?”

Thor killed his third attacker and stepped back toward me. “How many?” he asked. I did not answer. Because I was counting differently. Not how many remained. But how many were designed to die. That was when I saw it. On the wrist of one of the fallen wolves, partially exposed beneath torn fabric. A mark. A tattoo. Recognizable. I froze for a fraction of a second longer than I should have. Thor noticed immediately. “What is it?” I knelt slowly, pulling the wrist closer. The symbol was burned into skin with deliberate precision.

His men had done quite an impressive job on their victim. Leaning forward, a sharp tool flashed in his tattooed hands as he spoke ...his personal favourite weapon. A double blade dagger with his initials engraved on its side "This is what we're going to continue doing, for every wrong answer you give I'll rip off one of your body parts ...there's plenty you don't need to be alive" he paused, to see the desired effect of his words on the man.

The four types of tattoos were the Alpha tattoo, the Beta tattoo, the Zeta tattoo, and the member tattoo. My tattoo had seven moons at the top of my back with two versions of the Helm of Awe on each shoulder blade. In the middle of my back was Yggdrasil, the tree of life with a wolf head coming out of the roots. Finally, below the wolf and running down my spine was my name in Old Norse. In the middle of Yggdrasil’s branches, the Alpha sign of our pack was cleverly blended in.

My breasts tingle, my hands sizzle with the need to reach out and touch him. I don't know what he reads on my face but his eyes have gone cold again and his voice is even more intimidating. "Put down the cloth." I'm no good at following orders, never have been, especially those given by men. I have no idea why the cloth slips from my fingers and lands in the bowl. Dagger leans in and picks it up. His chest is inches from my eyes and his tats fill my vision. The ink appears prison-grade, but the artwork is intricate. A Grim Reaper stands over a crying woman holding a swaddled baby. The design weaves into swirls of flowers with branches that turn to thorns as they flow further out across his c

Running down his spine was a tattoo of a dagger, flanked by two cobras coiled around its blade, each poised to strike the other. The crossguard was shaped into a Trinacria—its eyes hollow and haunting, its hair a wild tangle of serpents. On its three bent legs were the words etched in a stark, gothic script: Famiglia, Orgoglioso, Patria. The ink stretched over the planes of his back like a warning—Family, Pride and Homeland. He stood up, and my suspicions were confirmed—completely naked, without a hint of shame. He slept next to me completely naked—fucking naked. But before I could even start to argue or throw some biting comment his way, something else pulled my focus—his ass.

The silence stretched for only a moment. “Pass this.” He heard Caden say to Ragnar, and moments later, he saw something shift in the low light between the bars. Ragnar passed him a dagger. “It’s made of silver and infused with wolfsbane. Send it right into his heart when you get the chance. Be patient and true, or else we’re all screwed and your prissy mate becomes fodder for starving soldiers,” Caden instructed gravely.

My gaze drifted unconsciously to his collarbone. There was a new tattoo there. Red, still swollen from being freshly inked, but unmistakable. It was my name. The characters were rendered in the most ancient, wild cursive form of script, like an old, binding sigil. My fingers trembled as I touched it. “When did you… get this?” Henry caught my hand and rubbed it gently against his palm. “Last night, after you fell asleep.” “Did it hurt?” “It was better that it hurt.” His eyes darkened, and a satisfied smile curved his lips.

“Well on that note, Thorfin has something to say. He has been on about his grand idea that would lead us into victory. I’ve only thought to tell you about it, and hear whatever it is you decide.” “Who’s Thorfin?” I asked trying to recall any man bearing that name. My memory space appeared blank. “He’s the late Elder Thorne’s son. Very determined and vicious young man he is. Although the death of his father has made him a little bitter. I only hope his ideas aren’t impervious.” “Let me speak with him,” I demanded, and Kane stood up to go get him. Thorfin appeared before me. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, but his built was that of a man who have spent yearns mmmmtraining f

But it wasn’t his body that got me tongue tied. It was the dagger. A huge black tattoo crested along his spine. Even as a drawing, it glistened as though it were real. The handle curved into individual snakes that seemed ready to attack if anyone were to go close to it. That wasn’t there since we were last together years ago. I guess people do change. He turned sharply, clearly caught off guard. And just when I thought I’d seen it all. The winged tattoo on both sides of his chests greeted me with an unwanted spice.