Scarred Novels & Stories

“I was already too weak to heal and the poison she used was not just any regular poison, it disconnects you from your wolf, therefore preventing you from healing, leaving a permanent scar” My hand involuntarily touched the scar. I traced it from his chest to his abdomen. “Does it hurt” “No, it's from five years ago” “It must have hurt” The scar looks like the dagger really went deep into his chest, I could only imagine the kind of pain he must have gone through, and also not being able to feel your wolf is like you are half dead. I felt his hands on my cheeks “Are you crying” Was I crying, I didn't even know tears were streaming down my face as I tried to imagine the kind of pain he had gone

When the third button came undone, and her shirt gaped open, I finally saw her scar. The aftermath of her emergency surgery had left its mark, a vivid testament to the battle she had waged for her life. The once smooth canvas of her skin now bore the aftermath of that struggle, a landscape of vivid purples and angry reds. The scar was a dark jagged reminder of the bullet's cruel entrance. Like a sinister brushstroke on an artist’s canvas, it started just above her left breast, and extended unwaveringly toward her underarm. I reached my hand out and touched the puckered skin where the bullet had almost pierced her heart.

she said, glancing at me, “if you could heal someone that is close to death… maybe you can fix scars too.” The room quieted just a little. I followed her gaze and realized what she was talking about. My scar. The old burn mark that curved down from the corner of my jaw to my neck—a part of my past I had tried to hide but couldn’t erase. I instinctively reached up, fingers brushing the edge of it. I hated that thing. I hated what it reminded me of. Rachael tilted her head. “I’m just saying… wouldn’t it be kind of amazing if you could heal yourself too?”

He held his phone and watched the video all night long. The next morning, when he looked in the mirror, he saw a man who looked like a vagrant—unshaven, haggard, and lifeless. He stared at his own reflection and muttered bitterly, "You deserve this." … On the day of my wedding, all my college classmates showed up, including Tristan. At first, I was worried he would cause trouble again. I didn't want to be disturbed by him anymore. Even with my good temper, I couldn't stand being constantly tangled up in his drama.

But her chest had a scar — a single line, red and burning. A name carved in silence. His.

“You didn’t have to step in like that.” Adrian stepped closer, eyes scanning my face. “He could have hurt you.” I crossed my arms, masking my vulnerability with stubborn defiance. “And even if he did, what would that have meant for your pack? Nothing. You weren’t supposed to interfere.” Adrian shrugged, the gesture casual, but there was a sharp edge to his voice. “It would have meant you weren’t properly trained in my pack.” The words stung. Whether intentional or not, they cut deeper than he likely realized.

Aiden looks like he might be sick, while Jasper and Marcus both look pissed. I turn back to Zahra just as she stands up straight, and I finally see what they’re staring at. Her back is covered in angry red and white scars, crisscrossing into a horrible lattice over her skin. My stomach churns at the sight. I knew her father had hurt her, but this is the first time I’m seeing the damage with my own eyes. I watch the realization dawn in her expression, and the look on her face nearly breaks me. Stepping forward, I try to ease her anxiety, wanting to brush this off for her sake. “Hey, little one. It’s good to see you enjoying yourself after this morning. How are you feeling?”

"What, is Mom not as important as some junk locket? You know what happens if her condition worsens." "I know." I cut him off, my voice cracking as I crouched on the floor. "No one knows better than me when she loses it." My old scars burned as I recalled it. Like a volatile child, she'd speak kindly one moment, and the next, brand me with a hot poker. The smell of scorched flesh haunted my nightmares. Andre fell silent, knowing how diligently I had cared for Evelyn, but a moment later, he hardened again. "I got it, you don't want her to get better."

There isn't a word for that kind of smile, maybe because no one ever wants to see it. "We need to go," Scarlett said. Her own body was streaked with sperm similarly to her sister's. Scarlett's chest was covered with finger-tip sized bruises and dark, pooling hickeys. Her knees and elbows were scraped, like she'd been rolling around in gravel. Which was probably true. Scarlett pulled at my arm and repeated her request. I nodded, still half out of it. "Yeah," I said, "Yes."

The moon had long since set, but Aria could not sleep. She sat curled on the edge of her bed, knees pressed tight to her chest, the shadows of the room pressing in on her like a cage. Her gaze never left the seared mark on her wrist. It pulsed faintly under the torchlight, its glow soft but unyielding, mocking her with every heartbeat. Her nails had scratched the skin raw. She had tried again and again to scrape it away, to draw blood until nothing remained but torn flesh. Yet no matter how much she clawed, the mark endured bright, damning, cruel.