Scars And Stripes Novels & Stories

The pressure was gentle, but the warning was crystal clear: "Remember why we're partners. It's about destroying the Ferraris, nothing else. Don't go where you don't belong." "I can fake someone's death, but I can also make it real." My breathing hitched for just a moment. Then I smiled and covered his hand with mine. "Of course, Mr. Rosetti. We're the perfect team." He hesitated, then released me: "My private doctor says your scars are treatable. Start preparing—we'll schedule the surgery soon." My eyes lit up. As he headed for the door, I called out: "Your face—why don't you consider getting yours fixed too?"

Saadiya had suffered a cut to her left arm but it wasn't anything serious, Parvina was attending to her. She looked at Omar and tried to steady her heavy breathing, he had ripped off his throbe and now left with a loose and very transparent under shirt which was no longer white but red and it perfectly outlined his very built muscles, his perspiration having soaked through them, Mariam stared at him for a while until he gave her a thumbs up and she blinked rapidly to clear her head. Focus Mariam, she told herself. He smiled at her and she smiled back but he couldn't clearly see her smile from the distance between them because of the cloth that hid her lower face so she nodded.

What a beautiful scar indeed. THE END.

I forgot. Miss, whoever she is, looked at me shockingly but there's a hint of familiarity and sadness in her eyes. As I stared at her, I realized she really looked so weird and no offense, ugly. There's a huge birthmark that covered her left forehead, down to her eye and her ear. There's also a huge mole on the lower right side of her mouth. To top everything off, she has a lot of pimples, acne scars and blackheads. This girl needs help.

I might have nothing but I will still stand like a pillar. I still don't understand one thing. Why couldn't he kill me that day? He said something is holding him back. Is that even possible? A tattoo on the leader's chest. I don't have tattoos. I have scars. Tears blurred my eyes as I put my hand on my chest. My scars define how strong I am. They might not allure anyone. I might be ugly in the world's eye but I know how these scars have made me strong. If they are powerful so do I am.

Circular, linear, triangular scars of all shapes and sizes marred his skin, fierce and haunting. Patricia recoiled in horror, her hands trembling as she pushed his clothes back into place. Indeed, there wasn't an untouched spot on his skin. All were scars of varying sizes. What kind of cruelty leaves marks that never fade? Manda had beaten her too, but she had never been left with a single scar. Patricia covered her mouth with her hand, tears falling one by one, too heartbroken to speak. Hunter quickly grabbed his coat from the chair and put it on.

Rossi, seeing her vulnerability. ​She stripped off her clothes, the heavy blue dress suddenly feeling like a crushing weight. She found a large, expensive silk scarf in the dressing room and tied it tightly around the worst part of the bruise on her arm, hoping the compression would slow the internal bleeding and dull the throbbing ache. It was a flimsy, temporary fix, but it was all she could manage.

She yanked at his pants, and his cock sprang free as he lifted his hips to help her. “My leg is scarred,” he warned. Terrence had scars everywhere from his Special Forces days. They only made him look more like a warrior—dangerous and hot. She winced, thinking of the pain each scar had caused, but to her, they didn’t make him any less perfect. They were part of him. And Terrence Roberts was beyond perfection. When she pulled his pants off completely, she gasped at the dark scars on his leg. “God, this must have hurt so bad.” She traced them with gentle fingers.

He stopped, glaring at Camila with such anger that she shook with fear. It was too late now, way too late. I tried to push past him. "Move." However, he grabbed my wrist and kissed it gently. When he looked up, his eyes were filled with a fierce need that I knew all too well. It was a look of possession, longing, and wild madness. "Alice, please, the mix-up's been sorted out. Give me another chance..." Slap! I cut him off with a sharp slap. "You two can deal with it. Leave me out of it."

I passed out naked, bloody, and alone but free; after ten years, I was free. I had just done the unthinkable. I completed the rejection ritual marking myself as a mate rejecter, a pariah in my community. I not only rejected my mate but my old pack. My whole identity to that point – was gone. I was now scarred, no longer marked. Now, I carry the black scar created by the silver blade, and I reject the mate made just for me by the goddess. The cursed life of a "Scarred One" is what I must look forward to now. The sense of loss was foreboding. Was what I lost the only cost for my freedom from my mate bond?