Tortured Soul Tattoo Novels & Stories

"This ritual involves the binding of your spirit to the pack. It’s a sacred tradition that signifies your commitment and connection to everyone here. You will receive a mark, a tattoo that symbolizes your bond with us." She produced a small vial of ink and a delicate, ornate needle. "This tattoo will be placed on your left wrist. It’s a representation of our pack’s symbol—a crescent moon intertwined with a wolf’s head. The ink is mixed with the essence of our ancestors, binding you to our lineage. But it won't be visible to anyone who is not a part of our pack." I held out my wrist, feeling a mixture of anticipation and reverence. As Sophia began to work, I winced slightly at the sting of th

“It’s like wrestling a storm. Feel it. Don’t fight it too hard, or it’ll snap.” Avery swallowed hard. Their hands shook as they reached toward the soul. Threads of light extended from their sigil, tangling gently around the corrupted form. The tether pulled, delicate but insistent. The soul resisted, writhing violently, and Avery felt it tug back like a living weight. “Steady,” Kael murmured. “It’s like wrestling a storm. Feel it. Don’t fight it too hard, or it’ll snap.” Avery focused, teeth clenched, sweat stinging their eyes. The threads glowed brighter as the soul’s light flickered, pulsing with an unstable rhythm.

She had vines of flowers blooming down her arm and up her shoulder. When I asked her about it, she said she got them to remind herself of each life she had ever taken. To remind herself that even the kindest people have monsters inside them. Reminded her that she had a soul and that the pain she endured while getting them was a way to own that guilt. Because tattooing a werewolf was painful and not for the faint-hearted. I had many tattoos that spread across my chest, down my arms, and then down my back. Some in memory of the lives I was forced to take and others to remind me why I was here, why I was so dark and hollow inside.

He can’t spare me, no matter how compliant I am. He stands from the bed and removes every piece of clothing from his body. The tattoos expand from his chest to his stomach, down to his strong torso. Black ink against his tanned skin. There are so many things written in Russian. But one particular thing catches my eye, it’s on his left torso, big and clear, “ To forgive is to sin.” The words send shivers racing down my spine. Who on earth writes something like that on their body? Not just write, but brand it into their skin permanently.

He informed Yash, but all Yash needed right then was pain; only pain could tackle his pain into not killing himself, he needed to be alive and only another pain could help him. “Yes,” His voice was cold. “What do you want a tattoo of?” he asked. Yash opened his phone and showed him the picture of the frequency of Shayra’s last words. The tattoo artist knew this was going to hurt like a bitch but since Yash wanted it, he did not have a say in it. The tattoo artist applied the pain-numbing gel before he started working on Yash’s back. His screams were silent but his mind could only hear the sobs she cried for him.

She asked and he nodded his head. “One of the dead bodies had a crescent moon tattoo on his chest, Alba. It was the same tattoo as mine, and the same one as the buff guy during that night…” his voice began to tremble out of anger, “the same tattoo as the man who killed and tortured my brother that night.”

“Still sharp. Good. You’ll need that.” I bare my teeth. “What do you want?” She doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she unwraps a strip of black cloth from her wrist. Reveals a brand burned into her flesh— A circle of broken thorns. “The Oath,” she says softly, almost reverent. “The vow that cost us everything.” “Congratulations,” I snarl. “You and your cult have matching tattoos. Let me go.” Her hand whips out and cracks across my face so hard I taste blood again.

The tattoo was his art, his design, and also the image of what he carried inside him every day the image he now carried on his back, that moved with him. Nikolai name was inked with intricate, beautiful calligraphy letters, while nico name was bold, broken, and bleeding into the flames. He loved his brother, but hated himself. There was a single crack in the headstone right at the top of the cross. The flames that engulfed the cross from the ground were blood red, angry shades of orange, its only goal to destroy while his name suffered its wrath.

“Two long tears. Both eyes.” The tattooist looked up from his tools, his expression grim. “You realize what you’re asking for? This isn’t just any tattoo. It marks you as part of a violent group. Step into River, and you’ll be arrested on sight. Worse, your soul will be bound to hers. If she dies, especially by your hand, your soul shatters into fragments. You’ll be left a husk—a mindless, broken shell. Are you sure about this?” In the corner, Argent leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, her silver braids reflecting the dim light as she formed a heart with her hands.

He removed the jacket, then the shirt, needing to breathe without Adrian’s choice touching his skin. His eyes dropped to his ribs. He froze. Beneath the pale skin on his left side was a tiny scar. It was small. Too small to mean nothing. The line was neat, clean, and careful, like someone had cut him open and closed him again with patience. Lucas touched it. A sharp sting shot through his side. He gasped and stepped back, hitting the sink. For one second, he heard something. A soft beep. Lucas stopped breathing. He searched the bathroom for a hidden machine, a camera, anything that could have made the sound.