Scarred Book Novels & Stories

Amara stared back, trying to project a semblance of stillness, refusing to betray the sheer terror gripping her. ​Emiliano stared at her for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be assessing her, her fear, her presence in his bed. He slowly walked around the bed, stopping on his side. ​He reached up, pulling his undershirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto a nearby chair. Amara couldn't breathe. Her gaze involuntarily dropped, taking in the powerful breadth of his chest, the taut lines of his abdomen, and the faint, intricate scars—silent trophies of a violent life—that crisscrossed his left shoulder.

It was Lani's shop. Scar felt his heart clench is anger as he realised the bastard hadn't hurt Lani physically, it had all been mental. That tattoo parlour was her everything, Scar knew it just like everyone else did and that was why he needed to find her - quickly. He knew more than anyone that mental wounds were much more painful than the ones that can be seen, he had to try and help her. The sky was dark as the ash danced around the club, the only light was the blaze of orange and red from the mighty fire, the glow left an eerie atmosphere that lingered around the lot. After a few more seconds of scanning the area, Scar found the little one with a careful eye.

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.

"How dare you scare me like that?" Agnes has her chin on his shoulder. Hearing him say those words, without knowing whether it was true or not, she bit her lips again and closed her eyes tightly. It's him. It's Leon. — CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A Cold Dark Scary Place — In a dark, still and quiet room, a lone body of a female human was lying on the damp floor. On her forehead, there was a trail of blood that dried over time. Her face was pale, and if you can't see her chest going up and down, you would mistake her as dead.

This is obviously a full-blown emotional crisis. “Scarlett,” I say carefully, crouching beside her, “What happened?” She lifts her tear-streaked face and wails, “They took it!” I’m taken aback by her vehemence and wonder who’d be stupid enough to take something from Scarlett. “Who? And what did they take?” “My book! The one with all my drawings and the pack stories and the fancy leaf cover and the ribbon spine!” I’ve never seen or heard of this book before right now. “The... what now?”

Like, snail’s pace slow. I’d only known her a matter of hours. Fuck, the mate bond was wild. She’d been hurt. I swore never to hurt her, or let anyone else hurt her, ever again. I stacked her books away neatly while I waited for her, making Scarlett her own pile next to one of mine. They were an odd selection, no two of the same genre or style, spanning mythology and prophecy to classic literature in the canon and even one book on star signs, which had been clearly leafed through and written in.

He followed Mr Thompson to a shelf which had a bold written heading; THE BOOK OF SCARS. "The first book was written by the library keeper before me. He had a little knowledge of what scars meant but doubts arose that not all were interpreted correctly." He said, taking out two black books from the shelf. "So which has the correct interpretation?" He asked. "This." Mr Thompson points the right one to him. "My brother and I had to put in a lot to come up with a solid interpretation for every kind of scar and their meanings. Read through it and you'll see what I am talking about."

The same who have to suffer for the sake of others. Weird. “Gotta!” Finally, I found the book I was looking for. It has been years since I last opened it, and it had dust on every side of it. I took it to my desk. I was sure my doors were closed so I wouldn't get interrupted. One page after the other, I kept flipping until I got to the exact page the diagram was. “THE SCAR OF ANCIENT REMEMBRANCE.” This type of scars symbolizes that life is full of pain and suffering that must be endured with strength and stoicism. It was a sign that all she had passed through in her lifetime will be remembered through him. Diego was her future, the one destined to carry on her legacies.

Gwyneth stared at the hideous scar in the mirror, lost in thought. It had been ages since she had taken a close look at it. The scar ran horizontally across her abdomen, starting from the front and stretching toward her side, even reaching further toward her back. Gwyneth pursed her lips and delicately traced her fingertips along the scar. It no longer elicited any pain, but the fact that she had been young when her skin was burned meant that the nerves beneath the scar had suffered damage. As a result, whenever her scar was touched, she would experience a peculiar sensation—a constant reminder that her nerves had not yet fully recovered.

Revenge, they said. The details didn’t matter. What mattered was—he was gone. I couldn’t quite name what I felt. Something close to sadness. Maybe grief. But not love. Not regret. It was just… strange. That day in Rome had been ordinary. The sun was out. Warm. I remembered how it felt against my skin as I stood in the courtyard. With Silas gone, it felt like a chapter of my life quietly folded shut. Like the last thread connecting me to the old me had finally snapped.