First Cut Is The Deepest Novels & Stories

I am not who I was ~ Chance Peña Adea I’m not marking you, Princess. I’m not marking you. I’m not. Shane’s words pierce through my chest. Each word is a makeshift sword slicing through flesh. Tearing at skin, breaking through bone until, finally, my heart splinters and cracks. Not right down the middle, no. It’s riddled with deep gashes as everything I came to know as true in the last few hours shatters. The man in front of me stares down at me as if what he’s said makes absolute sense. It doesn’t.

The real danger with them is all about the sheer number, and I hope with everything in me that more aren't coming. Something slams into my back, the sharp stab of teeth sinking into my back leg. I buck my weight into the bastard, hurling him into a nearby trunk. I'm on him in seconds, slashing my jaws across his throat. After all, decapitation is the best way to ensure they don't get back up. His head tumbles to the ground and into a nearby shrub.

This time, one cut is not enough. I make ten. I’m feeling lightheaded, but the pain in my heart still doesn’t disappear. It just intensifies when I realize that even if I was to cut too deep, no one would be affected by it. No one would miss me. No one would be sad. No one would care about me.

--- And as the silence returned— As the distance between them settled into something real— As truth replaced what connection once was— One final truth emerged: --- The deepest cuts are not made by enemies— --- But by the ones who know exactly what to say… --- And choose to say it anyway.

I felt the wound in it like a knife, freshly reopened. I didn’t flinch. "Yes." It hit like a blade—not deep, but enough to knock the air sideways. I held still. Because I knew him well enough to know—if he truly wanted to cut, he’d do it with silence. Not this. Not words. "That doesn’t undo the night before," I said softly, each word weighted like I was laying down stone. "You were the first. The one who carried me. The one who saw me when I was still pieces."

“The duel begins now.” I made my way to the centre, facing him. He made his first move. A slash on my chest and a stab in my ribs. But I did not flinch, didn't move an inch. I allowed his sword to pierce my skin, to carve shallow wounds into my flesh. As blood seeped down my torso, I gave him a focused stare. “I thought it would be you,” I said, steadying my voice. “I thought you would be the first to serve without coveting what does not belong to you.”

The fight was savage. The First fought with the desperation of a man clinging to the last thing he owned. His blade slashed the air, seeking blood. But the Second — gods, the Second was something else entirely. His movements were sharp, practiced, controlled. Every dodge, every strike landed with surgical precision. He wasn’t wild. He was efficient. Steel glanced off flesh, a grunt tore the silence, and then the Second slammed the First into the wall so hard the cabin rattled. The knife clattered across the floor.

Like chains being dragged across bone. And deep inside, my wolf—what’s left of her—whimpers. She knows this tongue, and she’s terrified. He lifts the blade again. The next cut is longer. From my sternum to just above my navel. Shallow. Deliberate. Cruel. The blade sings as it moves, not slicing, but waking up.

It seemed that the man below her had realized she was no longer comfortable because he began to twist and turn,, showing signs of waking up. Anaya remained still, trying as much as she could to relax so as not to wake him up and when his breathing returned back to normal, she let out a Shakey breath she wasn't aware she was holding. When she was sure he was comfortable, she ran her fingertips over his underarms again, just to be sure she wasn't hallucinating and she felt the same thing again. There was a scar on his underarms, it ran all the way to his elbow and Anaya was so sure that it wasn't a coincidence. She recalled that sometime in her younger years when she was ten, Marcelo had agree

A scream tore from my throat—. The pain was a white-hot blade, a physical shattering of the last bit of innocence I had left. I felt the warm stickiness of blood on the bedsheets. It was my first time, a moment that should have been sacred, now turned into a scene of carnage. ​He didn't care about my pain. He didn't care that It was my first time. He began to move with a rhythmic desperation. ​"I'll punish you so badly that you'll hate seeing yourself in the mirror," he hissed. His hand came down in a sharp, stinging strike against my skin.