Scarred: A Never After Novel 소설 & 이야기

The kind that happens when something enters a room that nobody was prepared for. I go still. I don’t look at anyone. I stare at the wall directly in front of me and I breathe, slowly, through my nose, and I feel the air on my back and I know exactly what they can see and I don’t move a single muscle. The scars don’t lie. They never have. They’re not the clean, faded kind that can be explained away as childhood accidents or a medical procedure. They’re the kind that have a story, and the story is ugly, and every woman in this room is currently reading it whether they want to or not.

“There it is again.” “What?” My voice rasped. She reached, hesitating, then brushed her fingers above my collarbone, where the witch’s magic had slammed into me. Not touching skin. Just hovering. Her fingers trembled. “You’re scarred,” she whispered. “Not your body, but your aura. Something left a burn. A mark.” I felt it then. The faintest chill tracing down my spine. “I thought she was dead.” My voice broke like cracked glass. “I thought the Codex destroyed her.”

Layla scrambled back in terror, but it was too late. My claws ripped her dress, revealing the pale skin of her back. It was smooth. Flawless. There was no scar. And Myrna... Myrna had a hideous scar running from her left shoulder to her right hip. The scar I had touched a thousand times, but never once asked where it came from. "Moon Goddess," I collapsed. "What have I done?" "You regret it now?" Layla sat on the floor, her eyes filled with malicious glee. "It's too late, Clark. It's far too late."

“Do not come closer, Scarlet. Just answer my question.” “Are you okay?” she countered, ignoring my warning and closing the distance. “Scar… we can’t keep doing this. It’s obvious you don’t—” “Are you hurt?” she cut herself off, her voice trembling as she stood in front of me now, eyes glistening with the faint trace of tears. She laid a tentative hand on my chest. Her touch met the heat of scorched skin where my clothes had burned away, only tatters clinging to me. This was the first time she’d seen the aftermath of what I endured.

C H A S E It didn't hurt again. No, it didn’t. In fact, it was completely healed, surely leaving behind its main purpose; a scar, but every time she remembered that night, Sophia could still feel the pain of a scalding hot knife tearing at her skin in form of those five letters. It mentally stung her more and the need to claw on the scar and rip it off gnawed at her mind but that was impossible. It was impossible to rip off something that had become a part of her skin. Warm arms engulfed Sophia in a hug from behind her, before the scent of sandalwood hit her nostrils and she froze in her place. The fingers on the scar froze also. “Do you like it?"

Tessa’s POV After I was shot by Silas Vale’s rival gang, I dragged myself to his casino, desperate and half‑bleeding out, hoping he’d help me. Instead, I walked straight into Silas as he was hurrying out with his childhood sweetheart, Amy Calloway, in his arms. He barely looked at me, “Get this bloody mess out of my casino. Don’t let my Amy see her—she’s scared of blood.” So I was dumped in the back alley by his men like trash.

“You’re fully claimed now. By me. By the moon herself.” I felt it—the power, the connection, the absolute certainty that nothing would ever sever this. I pulled him down and kissed him, tasting blood and us and forever. “Again,” I whispered against his lips. He smiled—feral, adoring—and spent the rest of the storm proving the mark would never fade. By dawn the thunder had passed, the sky was pale gold, and the new scar on my neck shone silver-bright, raised and perfect. Victor traced it with his tongue, lazy and satisfied.

He doesn’t recoil, instead he watches the motion of my fingers. “You didn’t have a good life either, did you?” I whisper. There’s a pause for a few seconds. “My pack was taken over by another many years ago. And as a child, I was beaten into submission. Only recently was I able to escape, and that’s why I’ve settled here.” “I see. Scars…we all have scars that tell a story, our struggles and what we overcame. Battle scars.” I whisper. “I’ve seen yours,” he says.

A massive wolf stepped into the clearing, black fur matted, its eyes wild with something inhuman. A corrupted creature. The rogue. It stood still, watching me, as if amused by the look on my face. Its scent hit me like a wall. Rotting magic, ancient decay. It was death incarnate.

He didn't look up immediately, leaving Amara standing awkwardly, a pawn awaiting her move. This time, Amara noticed something she hadn't seen in the shadows of their first encounter. As he shifted slightly, turning a page, the light caught the side of his neck, just below his ear, before disappearing beneath his collar. A prominent scar. It was a jagged, uneven line, deep and old, the kind of scar that bespoke a brutal, desperate struggle. It wasn't the thin line above his eyebrow; this was far more significant, almost certainly from a knife or a bullet.