Wicked Grim Reaper Tattoo Novels & Stories

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.

In his right hand, he held the familiar silver dagger, its blade gleaming dangerously. But as the rebel assassin took a step toward my bed, his left hand reached up to his own collar. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the fabric down, exposing his spine to the mirror on the wall behind him. My breath completely trapped itself in my throat, and my heart stopped dead in my chest. There, seared into the skin of the ruthless Omega rebel's back, was a glowing, crimson brand. A perfect, permanent tattoo of my own true initials. MW.

His voice should have been a dead giveaway, but I was too distracted by everything going on. I dropped down beside his body and looked for the one verifiable piece of proof that I needed to know if this was the same man. A gut-wrenching scream tore from me when I saw the tattoo of a grim reaper holding a wolf skull on his right thigh. It had not been a coincidence. My fist struck his chest over and over, but it did not make the memories go away. He was worse than Dulaney. Worse than Elwyn. Worse than Eric. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch,” I snarled as tears poured down my face.

“Last man who asked me that price is still choking on it. Along with two of his friends lying dead. You’re big, but it’d still only take me half a heartbeat to tear your head off and use it as a shot glass.” He laughs, dark, delicious, and shrugs off his shirt. It hits the floor like surrender. Then he took his fur cap off too. Ink covers every inch of him, old runes, skulls, a crowned wolves, and right in the middle of his forehead, the mark of the Reaper Saints. Real outlaw blood. Not just pack royalty. This man eats wolves for breakfast. He's in a biker association. He still doesn’t scare me. I roll my shoulders. “Kneel,” I tell him. “Apologize for your dogs putting hands on me.”

Isn’t how painful it is for a mother to lose a child? I looked at the tattoo on the man’s neck that I had just noticed. A skulk tattoo in a Grecian style of art. I opened my mouth in shock, along with fear. There was only one person with a tattoo like that. Don't tell me his Deathwish? The color on my face disappeared, and the coldness took over. No, please, I am wrong. It was impossible that Maverick was Deathwish. Because if he was, I knew death was my destiny.

They were grateful they hadn't provoked him, or they might have been the ones lying on the floor. Frederick lifted the nearly unconscious brute off the ground. "Answer my question. Where'd you get that tattoo?" He was curious because the tattoo was Organization V's symbol, but the brute was just an Aflon Grandmaster, the lowest rank among Savant Grandmasters, making it impossible to be a member of the organization. Nevertheless, Frederick was certain that he must have some connection with the organization. The brute, bloodied and trembling, begged for mercy. "Please spare me! It's from a notorious serial killer of women—Ripper. I thought it looked cool, so I got one too."

I said while fiddling my fingers. "You do not have to thank me. I'd happily eliminate every last one of those cowards from the entire region," he said tightly. I noticed his jaw was set and couldn't help but take in his features. His black hair feathered across his eyebrows and I watched as he ran his hand through it to brush it away from his eyes. His full lips were set in a frown as if he was picturing eliminating the witch hunters in his mind. I also noticed the tattoo that ran from his neck and down to his shoulder. The abstract design framed a triple goddess moon symbol with a dagger that impaled the inner circle. This brought my thoughts back to the night before and Tor's magnificent p

Jet black feathers adorned him and they all shimmered gallantly under the sun, making Hanji feel lucky and proud of Rai. Patting his neck, he quickly sat on it's back, ignoring the sharp pain he felt on his pelvis. "Let's go Rai. Let's go find Grandfather's apprentice." ❇❇❇ The red ruby was flaring. It was glowing brightly in his pockets and was emitting heat that almost burnt his right hand when he attempted to touch it. It was a charm given by his magician friend that lives in the Pacific. It warns the holder from malicious intent and desires. This ruby had saved him from a couple of scammers and troubles, but it never was this coruscant before. It would only glow a bit, like a pulse of re

The murderous rage in Big Dad's eyes blazed so brightly that it was almost tangible. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room in an instant, freezing everything in place. He stared fixedly at the deep, bone-revealing gash on my knee, then at the phoenix tattoo on my right arm that had been deliberately flayed open. His pupils constricted violently. "E-Elle?" The man, a living Grim Reaper who could turn the underworld upside down with a wave of his hand, actually trembled uncontrollably as he spoke.

The sound of his boots faded down the hall. I pressed my back against the wall and slid to the floor. My body was still shaking. Not from fear. Or not only from fear. When his teeth had grazed my mark, something inside me had ignited. A heat that started at my neck and poured down through my chest, my stomach, my thighs. My skin had tightened. My breath had caught. And for one terrible, honest second, I had wanted him closer. The Reaper. The man who’d killed his own family. The man who collected territories like other men collected debts.