Bruises Book Novels & Stories

Her skin is so soft. I notice the slight bruise on her arm so I raised the sleeve of her shirt and see a bruise that looks like hand prints. I slowly pull her towards me and lift up the back of her shirt and see an almost faded bruise line a quarter way up her back. I see gashes that have almost healed and scars from others. Normally wolves don’t have scars unless it’s an extremely deep cut or it was made with silver or wolfsbane. I pull her shirt back down and just hug her to me. How could someone allow this to happen to a young girl? Let alone my mate?

I asked She was hesitant, but she lifted her shirt. When she did, I couldn't help but gasp. There were bruises all over her back. They were like whip marks or something. What shocked me the most was that they were old bruises. Werewolves heal at a quick pace. So she shouldn't bruise unless someone gave her something to mess with her healing abilities, like wolfsbane. "Vivian, where did you get these bruises?" I asked her "I don't know," She said

--- The bruising went first. It happened the way healing always happened when you weren't paying close attention to it — not as a single dramatic morning where Dante woke up and declared himself fixed, but as a slow erosion of color, the deep plum-black along his ribs fading by careful degrees into yellow-green and then into nothing, until one Tuesday he reached up to scratch his own jaw and realized, with the mild surprise of someone noticing an old habit had quietly stopped, that it didn't hurt to lift his arm above his shoulder anymore.

My parents' voices drifted upstairs, their argument about my uncle Percival and the boys' practice serving as a backdrop to my disorientation. Sitting up, I raised my arms to examine the bruises that marred my skin, dark streaks of blue and purple stretching from my wrists to my elbows. The finger-shaped impressions were a stark reminder of the violence I had endured. My heart sank as I recognized their origin. I moved to the full-length mirror in the hall, reluctantly confronting my reflection. The mirror, always a source of self-loathing, now reflected the bruises and the emotional scars that lay hidden beneath. I brushed my hair behind my ear, revealing the marks that seemed to shout of p

I opened my notebook to a clean page. The teacher came in. Someone started talking about the amendment of the northern territory accords. I wrote the date at the top of the page. And then, because I paid attention, because it was the thing I did that was louder than everything else, I looked. Not at his face. At his hand on the desk. The right hand, resting loosely beside his textbook, and across the knuckles the specific deep red of bruising that was less than twelve hours old, the kind that came from impact, the kind that came from a fist connecting with something that did not yield.

LENA The first bruise appeared before breakfast and I stared at the purple mark blooming across my forearm while buttoning my sleeve. It hurt but oddly enough, I liked it and it wasn’t because pain was pleasant but because this one belonged to me, nobody had grabbed my wrist, nobody had shoved me against a wall and nobody had whipped me because Cara had broken another vase. This bruise wasn’t something done to me, I had earned it and that made all the difference. The dining hall buzzed with quiet conversation when I walked in, servants carried trays between tables, warriors argued over whose patrol had been worse and someone laughed loudly near the fireplace.

Eyes open, breathing slow, like any sudden movement would shatter something inside me. The bruises, they were darker now. Fresh ones layered over old. A storm of purples and fading blues decorated the softest parts of me. My hips, my ribs, the inside of my thighs. My neck bore the worst of it. Angry prints where his hand had clutched me too tightly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold me or destroy me. I pressed a finger gently to one of them and hissed. Still raw. Still his. Dante wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t.

I gasped softly, recoiling. His brows knitted in confusion. Instantly, he reached for my arm to see what was wrong. I hesitated but eventually lowered my eyes to look. A large bruise sprawled across my skin, deep purple blotched with angry reds. Scratch marks curled across the area like claws. Dots of dried blood framed the edges. My heartbeat skipped violently. I had not processed it earlier. Adrenaline had numbed me, but now the pain pulsed with every second. Leandro’s breath hitched. He cursed under his breath as his fingers traced the damaged skin carefully, as if afraid it might rip further.

She opens her mouth, closes it again. I smirk in her direction and hold up the book one last time, turn to a page with knotting, and nod to myself. "I can make this happen." Sienna shrieks. "Okay, that's enough! Give it back!" She tries to jump for the book, but I easily lift it over her head and blink down in amusement. "You're very small—" I stop myself right there and then to stare harder at her face. There are bruises there. She is bleeding. How did I not notice? "Who hurt you?"

My Iesha had bruises all over her and needed to be treated urgently. Note: thanks so much for reading this far. don't forget to vote the story with gems and please invite your friends to read the story. much love author ❤️