Tortured Soul Tattoo Novels & Stories

"I know who I am. I am Kerik Renfred you wrench! The Queen of all life and dead creatures of the world." "That's not possible-" "I am Kerik Renfred!" My voice grew louder and louder over every word, and my confidence slowly returned back to me. There was no way to survive hell, without taking a piece of it with you. Something only dark souls can understand. "The worst kind of pain, is the one you feel in your soul, it slowly devours everything and weighs you down until you can no longer move. It hurts more than any burn, any scar and any bruise. Because it would never heal, no matter what you do. It's always there inside of you."

The light scattering of hair on his lower abdomen disappeared into the towel and the only thing marring the beauty of his skin was the angry red mark on his chest, just a few inches away from his heart where he had been shot yesterday. Now that he was finally unclothed, I was able to see the tattoo on his left arm. It was a picture of a phoenix in flight and it was magnificent. The artist had focused on every tiny detail down to the red eye of the phoenix and somehow, it suited him. He was just as majestic as the bird.

Some of the cuts were deep, deeper than I'd initially realized, the edges ragged where the leather had torn through skin. The tattoos made it worse somehow. I could see where the belt had struck directly across the carefully inked designs that included a wolf's head on his left shoulder blade, partially obscured by a gash that wouldn't stop bleeding along with geometric patterns along his spine, interrupted by welts that were already swelling. These tattoos had been chosen carefully, each one meaning something. And now they were destroyed, marred by his father's cruelty. My vision blurred with tears. I blinked them back furiously, trying to focus on the task at hand. Crying wouldn't help him

There are pictures of one of her sex dungeons in her home in Paris, New York, London, and in her very own home, Japan. As I look through each picture, feeling my stomach fuzzy from all these disgusting and disturbing photos, that's when my heart drops, and my eyes grow wide in shock. My hands shake as I enlarge the image with my fingertips. I stare at the tribal tattoo that the Wolfe brothers have. It symbolizes their brotherhood and love for one another as a family who will always protect each other. It's the same tattoo I saw on Seth's right arm. "Terry? Are you feeling okay?"

My blood ran cold. That totem was identical to the unique mark on Rocco's chest, the one that represented our eternal Mate Bond. Only true mates received such a mark—a symbol of blended souls, a lifelong promise. And now, she had tattooed it onto her own skin. And Rocco had allowed it. I put down my phone and called the pack's tattoo artist. "Luna Caterina? It's so late. Is everything alright?" Samuel, the artist, sounded exhausted. "Samuel, I need to book an appointment for a tattoo removal."

She pressed herself against the wall, peeking through the gap. Father Zerus stood with his back to her, his cassock already on the floor, his broad shoulders bare. He was reaching for a clean shirt when she saw it—the tattoo that covered his left shoulder blade. It is a serpent, coiled around a dagger, its scales , its eyes burning with an inner fire. The dagger was stained with drops of blood, and beneath it, a single word was etched in elegant script: Sosa. Krystal's blood turned to ice. The club. The night she had been so drunk she could barely stand. The man she had walked into, the man whose hand she had grabbed, dragging him through the crowd. The man she had kissed before he had pushe

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.

I have nothing to cling to but myself crumbling. I was grabbed by my bandaged arm. He was the one who did this. He made this tattoo remarkable in every special way he could. He made me very happy. Why do I have to be hurt so much too? I looked up at the ceiling as if speaking to the god of the people. Why are you doing this to me? What is my fault with you for torturing me like this? Don't you feel sorry? Don't you have mercy ?!

Right where the whipping scar was visible before, only because Hardin hated it, he tattooed the spot. "You have a tattoo too?" Tessa's eyes are surprised by what she sees. Tribal tattoos are the most painful tattoos because of their intricate shapes and engravings. "You remember? I got a whipping when I was protecting you?" Hardin brings up the time Tessa was kidnapped. "I'm sorry I made you get the marks." Tessa's hand trembles as it touches Hardin's arm, even though the texture still feels like uneven skin.

I was so speechless, I just jumped on him and he winced, the tattoo was still hurting a bit. My fingers traced another ink one on his shoulder, he got this one after his dad died, in memory of him. "Do you always do this when I'm asleep" Bryne's husky voice jolts me back and I quickly remove my hand from his chest. He frowns and sits up, resting his back on the headboard. He yawns and stretches. I gulp, watching his thick muscle extends and flexes. "Come here" I nod and crawl to his arms obediently. He draws circles on my back and hums an inaudible tune.