Scars And Stripes Novels & Stories

Still hers. She trailed her fingertips his arm, as the morning light danced over the bruises and healing wounds as if trying to make sense of the pain etched into his skin. Battle scars. Every one of them earned in the fight to get Sophie back. The war might have been over, but peace hadn't yet settled down in her heart. Grayson stirred beside her. "You ever going to stop watching me sleep like a serial killer?" She smiled faintly. "Probably not." He cracked one eye open. "Creepy and sexy. That's very on-brand for you."

I got home and opened the door, only to be met with a blow to the head. Evelyn screamed, swinging a stick at me. "Get out, you filthy tramp! We don't need you!" Blood trickled from my forehead into my eyes, stinging like acid. I raised my arm to block her. "Enough!" She stumbled, the stick clattering to the floor. Then, like a switch flipped, she collapsed into sobs, wrapping me in a suffocating hug. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm sick. I didn't mean it."

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 black velvet I sliced into thin straps, crossing them over my chest, around my throat, between my legs, barely covering my cunt, just two narrow strips that framed it like an invitation to sin. I looked like a gladiator whore sculpted from nightmares and sex. I took the leftover velvet and braided it into my hair, wet and wild from the shower, until it hung in thick, savage ropes down my back. Then I used the blood from a split knuckle to paint war-stripes across my cheekbones, down my throat, and between my breasts. I didn’t walk to the mirror, I prowled to it and when I saw myself, naked skin, silk, velvet, blood, eyes glowing molten gold with heat and murder, I smiled the kind of smil

Like I have two dimples when I smile while Emily has two but one is not that deep. I have a small birthmark just above my navel, which Emily doesn't have. When I went out two days ago to meet up with Maddie at Starbucks, people were congratulating me on my wedding. I was too embarrassed to say I'm not the one getting married but my twin. Nobody will believe me, anyway. So I thanked them and smiled politely at them. At the mall, when we went shopping for wedding gifts, someone congratulated me, and I told him I wasn't the one he never believed me.

It carved something deeper into me than any leather strap possibly could. I carefully peeled off what remained of my shredded uniform. The cool air instantly kissed my raw skin, and I hissed sharply in agony. My body was a horrifying map of relentless cruelty—old scars marking Vera’s lessons, burns from the boiling water she had “accidentally” spilled, and now these ten angry, weeping stripes dripping blood steadily down my spine. I couldn’t reach all of them myself, but if I didn’t manage to clean them, a rapid infection would surely finish what the whip had successfully started.

Scars. “I only have this tattoo as a means of covering the stigma they branded on me. This scar is meant to tell the rest of the world how useless I am. That I’m a pitiful Omega with no place in society. I’m to be despised by every werewolf who sees it. It’s a target on my back, declaring that I’m a rogue wolf. That I’m free-game, to be hunted down by any pack I approach in the future. Living in the wild seems like a fate worse than death. Freedom for me would be…impossible.”

Each scar held a story—a story of struggle, survival, and triumph. Deep admired these marks, not with regret or sorrow, but with a sense of reverence. They were reminders of his journey—a journey that tested his strength and perseverance. They symbolized moments of challenge and resilience, etched into his skin like chapters in a book. With every faded line, he saw a testament to his body's remarkable ability to heal, a silent declaration of overcoming adversity. These scars were symbols of battles fought and won, of hurdles crossed and lessons learned. They were not just marks on his skin; they were emblems of resilience and courage.

"I'm mateless, Celeste." "What do you mean?" He sets his drink down, scooting off the bean bag and pushing himself closer to me. He turns his back to me, grabbing his lengthy hair and moving it away from the back of his neck. There, beneath his hairline, is a circle of scarred flesh. As he flexes his neck I could've sworn it had a goldish hue to it. There's raised flesh within the circled scar, slightly pale in color. Two inward curved lines reflect back on each other on opposite sides of the scar. Additionally, a small line lays between the reflection, outward dashes of opposite direction on either end. A slanted slash goes through the middle of the line. It looks wrong on his body, the mar