Scarred Novels & Stories

I never liked people getting too close to me. It might have been my survival instincts and trust issues, but I'm used to people being cruel. With both my parents gone, years of surviving as a lone wolf taught me to expect only the worst in humans. Kindness isn't something I see every day. Scar watches me as I wrap up the cuts around my hand with a white cloth. As his name says, he has quite a glaring scar that runs from his left eye to the side of his jaw. His bare chest shows numerous tattoos and battle marks. A leather belt hangs on his waist, securing a pair of cargo pants.

He glanced at my stomach. “Does it hurt?” “No.” “Don’t lie. Last time, holding it made you collapse.” “It’s nothing,” I said, hiding the truth. That scar was a permanent reminder even with the blood tie broken, Beta Kyle’s mark lingered. Kael’s crimson eyes narrowed. “Scars fade. Think of it as a survivor’s wound.” “A survivor’s wound?” I echoed, surprised. “It hurt. It left its mark. But look at you alive, standing, stronger than you know. You survived.”

It was also considered as a submission. "Okay, I apologize to the Pride of the Alpha. And I also submit to her. Please don't banish me like that." He said in a fearful tone. His hands and legs were shaking with fear. Just then I noticed something odd. I had never seen it in my entire life, or maybe I just never noticed it. One of James' palms had a scar on it. It was ugly and it looked old. And to be honest, it looked as if he was bitten by a pup a long time ago. I was as if I was a statue. I was not able to move. I did not even know if I was breathing or not.

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.

“It hurts” Meme gasps dramatically, “you didn’t”! “No, I didn’t”, I told her. “But what happened was… I dunno! But it felt amazing while it was happening”. I blush at the memory. “Those marks all over you definitely say it was sinister”, she says as I look at her in confusion. I get up and head to the bathroom and gasp at my own reflection. The deep purple welts that adorn my body are so dark I can see them through the thin white tee! Meme is again laughing like a hyena at my state of shock.

The bite of the slap was still burning in their marrow — Samuel Blackwood slapping his own son in our presence. It had not been rage alone that silenced them. It was the knowledge of what they had witnessed: a chink in the armor of the man they followed. A chink that smelled of weakness. --- “Never thought I’d see it,” he muttered, Scarface, his scar pulling taut as he spat onto the concrete, but His voice was low, and in the cavernous space, even whispers traveled. “The boss bled. Like a whipped dog.” A few of the men were surprised. One, a tattooed, slouching smuggling thug, growled, "Watch your mouth."

I felt the weight of his gaze, cold and unreadable. His face was hard, weathered like he’d seen too much. And then I saw it—the scar. It ran jagged from just above his left eyebrow, slashing diagonally down through his eye, and ending at the corner of his lip. The skin around it looked old, healed, but it cut through his expression, twisting his face into something crueler, something that made my stomach tighten with unease.

She asked curiously but something doesn't add up. I mean I have asked him about the scars and he insinuated that it was BDSM gone wrong and honestly I didn't think much of it because that was when we just lost our parents and he was a little rebellious at that point but I still think she got the wrong guy... I mean now I understand why she fled immediately she saw him shirtless but anyone could have a similar scar, right?

The scar was silver. Tomorrow we go home.

She watched as he frowned at the button , his chiseled face was like a sculpture, he had thick and roughly carved brows she felt like running her hands on them. He had a well carved beards which had evidence of not been shaved for a while, they where prickly but also tickled wherever his face brushed her arm. The lock of hair that had been on his forehead head was now brushing his eyes, Ann had the strongest urge to brush it from his eyes and indeed they did feel marvelously silky. Oh on! She had touched it, and now he was looking at her. But this time not only did he look frustrated, there was something else, it wasn't there before and it reminded her of the day at the library.