Bruised Novels & Stories

After Emily got home, the bruised areas from her fall started to ache, and there was a dull pain in her chest as well. She went to her room, took off her clothes to apply medicine. The bruise was on her right side, so she clumsily applied the ointment with her left hand. Once she was done, she felt hungry but didn’t feel like cooking, so she ordered takeout.

With a resigned sigh, he lowered his guard and allowed me to continue patching him up. "Fine," he said reluctantly, releasing my arm. I nodded in understanding, my focus unwavering as I tended to Orion's wounds. Carefully undressing him to expose his injured skin, I began my assessment. A deep bruise on his abdomen caught my attention first, its ominous hues of purple and blue hinting at underlying internal trauma. As I worked, I noted another troubling sight—a series of scratches etched angrily across his shoulder blade, their redness indicating a fierce struggle or scrape against a rough surface. I frowned, sadness and worry etched on my face at the severity of his injuries.

Bruce was thrown out of the moving car. Their eyes narrowed in suspicion as they realized a disheveled and injured man was sprawled at the gate. Before they could spring into action, the car abruptly accelerated, leaving Bruce behind in its dust. One of them shouted, "Mr. Bruce!" The guards approached, their concerns mounting as they noticed the visible signs of physical trauma etched across Bruce's body. Deep bruises and lacerations bore witness to the violence he had endured. It was evident that he had been subjected to a harrowing ordeal.

He was strong and graceful. Right now, however, his pale skin was marred by a huge, ugly bruise. Shades of blue and purple blended into black, with some parts still bleeding. It was a sight that was hard to ignore. That was not a cut or a gunshot wound. It looked more like he had been hit by something heavy. Shawn, trying not to scare her, put on his shirt. "Didn't you want to go read in the study?" "How did you get hurt like this?"

And for a few seconds, I found myself being completely lost before looking down at my arm. I blinked, then followed his gaze. The bruise along my forearm had deepened overnight, painting my skin in shades of violet and blue. “Oh,” I said lightly, “that.” “Yes, that,” he said, already frowning. “What happened?” “It’s just from training.” I said, shrugging. “You know, one tends to get them after falling more than once when training with the Alpha.” “You sound pleased about it.” His tone was halfway between disbelief and irritation.

“Before you.” The answer stung more than I expected. I didn’t ask again. Once the bleeding stopped, I moved lower, lifting the edge of his shirt to check his ribs. The bruise had spread wider than I thought—angry shades of red and purple. He sucked in a breath when my fingers brushed the spot. “Broken?” he asked. “Not sure,” I said. “But cracked, maybe. You’ll need to rest.” He gave a tired laugh. “Rest. Yeah, that sounds easy.”

They’re heavy, unresponsive, a reminder of how badly I’ve been pushed to the edge. My skin is a canvas of pain. Every inch of it seems to have been stained with violence. Bruises bloom across my arms and legs in varying shades of purple and black, as if the darkened marks are painting a picture of my suffering. They ache deep inside, the pain radiating outward with every subtle shift I make.

He growls softly, his eyes finding mine, “How long?” “Um. Bruises can take a week or two depending on the size. They’re different than scrapes or breaks, too. Like the one on my hand, it could take a few days or a week,” I explain, and the way his eyebrows pull together makes me smile. It’s kind of cute. “That long?” I nod. He grunts. “What about the one on your back?” He asks, and I sigh. I guess he’d seen that one while I was wearing that backless dress earlier.

I stripped off my bloodied shirt with a wince, the fabric sticking to my skin where the cut on my forehead had started to dry. My ribs screamed in protest as I moved, the deep ache making it clear that at least one of them was cracked—maybe worse. The bathroom mirror didn’t do me any favors. Bruises were already blooming across my skin, deep purple and angry red. My lip was busted, my cheek swollen. I sighed and turned on the shower, stepping under the spray and letting the hot water rinse away the grime and dried blood. My muscles protested, but I forced myself to stand under the heat, watching as the water swirled pink at my feet.

I reached back for the zip and pulled it up in two moves and then I stopped because I was facing the mirror and the mirror was not kind about what it showed me. The bruise at my jaw had gone yellow-green at the edges the healing part, the part that looks worse than the damage did. Victoria's work. Below my collarbone, half-hidden by the fabric's neckline, the mark Lucien didn't remember leaving older now, darker, a thing my body had decided to keep. My wrists, just visible at the cuffs of nothing, still held the ghost of the alley in shadow-thin lines where someone's grip had been too hard and too fast and too certain of its outcome.