Painted Scars By Neva Altaj Novels & Stories

I shut the door with a flick of my wrist, turned the lock, and shut out the prying eyes. "Don Romano, I'm Elena," I announced. "Here's a token from the Deluca family." The wheelchair turned slowly to face me. Even prepared, I caught my breath for a split second at the sight. His face was a study in contrasts. The left side was chiseled perfection, but the right was hidden behind a silver mask, with burn scars creeping out like red, twisted centipedes. It was truly a horrifying sight, a mix of the divine and the monstrous.

That girl who cried at the piano… how much pain had she endured? I closed my eyes, and her clear, stubborn eyes appeared in my mind. I had dismissed her as just another pawn in a marriage of convenience, and I had treated her with coldness and warnings. But now, a mix of rage, pity, and guilt tore through me. I wanted to protect her, to hide her under my wing, and make the people who hurt her pay a thousand times over. (Alessia's POV) After the ball, the atmosphere at the estate seemed to change.

[ALINA’S POV] As I stood in front of the mirror, the reflection staring back at me was one I had long since accepted but still couldn't quite get used to. My face was scarred, the marks running across my skin a reminder of my past—of what I had endured and survived. I ran a finger lightly over the jagged edges, tracing them with a quiet reverence, because despite everything, I didn’t regret the incident that had caused them. The pain had led me to Rowan, my fated mate, and for that, I would never wish it away.

He arrived at the clearing moments later, and the sight that greeted him ignited a fire he could barely contain. Nerina was sprawled on the ground, blood staining her side and darkening the dust. Her face was pale, and yet her eyes were wide, fierce even through the fear that pricked at her gaze. Aleron’s wolf let out a roar, low and guttural, reverberating through the clearing, shaking the air and startling the warriors who had accompanied her. Aleron stepped forward, the muscles in his body taut, ready to strike at anyone who had harmed her, though none had.

It was a breathtaking display of color and emotion, an embodiment of the darkness they had navigated and the light they had discovered within each other. The masterpiece depicted a figure emerging from a storm of shadows, its form illuminated by a radiant glow. It was a reflection of Elena’s transformation, a visual narrative of her struggle and triumph. The painting’s intensity and depth drew admiration from all corners of the room, its beauty a testament to her resilience and growth.

For what it was that was keeping her from drifting to sleep. Instead, Nevaeh lifted herself up, leaning on her elbow and tracing his features in the dim light. Aiden lay still under her and let her explore. He wasn’t like the pretty boys she’d grown up with. He had a scar in the middle of his left eyebrow. Nevaeh traced it over and over again with her finger before bending down to brush her lips over it. She found another small scar just under his left eye and then further down on his jaw and neck.

“Where?” “lake Riva.” “Why?” she whispered. “You already have a picture.” “Because I want you to make me something. And the only thing beautiful enough to hang on my wall is you.” I grabbed the sheet and pulled it away, so I could see her flat tummy. She had a cute belly button and flawless skin. Her only imperfection was the scar on her arm where she’d been struck by a bullet. We had the same scar. I just had it in more places. She continued to watch me with hesitance in her eyes. “I’ve never painted myself before. It’ll be weird.”

“But theories are how people become stupid when they fall in love with them too early. I want evidence.” That answer was so completely Ayla that some of my tension eased despite myself. She finally stopped near the back. The page was damaged badly. Part of the parchment had burned away, and several lines of writing were missing. What remained was a painting showing the huge orange-marked beast again, standing beside a woman. My heartbeat slowed. The woman’s face had been scratched away. It was not faded but scratched, like someone deliberately destroyed it until only the outline remained but the eyes were untouched.

Poppy gently pulls me to a chair. “Such pretty hair,” she mutters as she starts working with it. She is gentle and doesn’t pull on it. She puts my hair into a simple updo bun. It is not slick, but still curly. I like it because it's simple. “Alright, makeup.” She gets in front of me. “I’ll keep it simple and clean. Just enhance your natural beauty.” “Natural beauty? With these scars?” “These are an indication of what you’ve survived. They mean you’re a warrior. I have my own scars, and I never cover them. I wear them with pride because I overcame it all. You should too,” she says.

The air smelled of charcoal, oil paint, and the faint metallic tang of her own frustration. She held a pencil in one hand—loose, uncommitted—staring at the blank page in her lap. The last sketch of Nico lay beside her: him in boxers, arms crossed, scars on full display. The one she’d drawn after the 3 a.m. intervention. Every line captured—rough ridges, puckered burns, the way his lean muscle pulled tight over bone like he was always braced for the next hit. She’d drawn him a dozen times since.