Scars And Stripes Novels & Stories

"Time they're sorry for all of this." I sat at my desk, flipped on my laptop, and opened a new folder. I titled it Project Rise. And in that script, I began making a list of every vulnerability, every threat, every weapon I had at my disposal to strike back. Victoria's business partners. Cassandra's father's company. Jake's compulsion to be number one. Anything and everything were up for grabs now. They thought I was finished. They thought I'd just vanish into thin air, marry some dull fellow or reappear in thin air.

"Take it." One of the other men was already rifling through my jacket, pulling out my phone, my wallet. "Nice phone," he commented, scrolling through it. "Password?" "Go to hell." He shrugged and smashed it against my car's hood. The screen shattered, pieces of glass and metal scattering across the concrete. "Like I said," Scarface repeated, pocketing my watch. "Nothing personal. But stay away from things that don't belong to you." They climbed back into their sedan and drove off, leaving me standing in my driveway, bleeding from a dozen small cuts from the broken glass.

Things I can't identify. "Strip to the waist," he orders. "Both of you." I remove my shirt. Stand in just my sports bra. The scars covering my arms and stomach are visible. Evidence of every fight. Every injection. Every time my body tried to kill itself. Alexei's scars are different. Surgical. Precise. The marks of someone who's been cut open and studied. "Step into the circle," Konstantin instructs. "Face each other." We step inside. The silver circle tingles against my bare feet. Alexei is close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

Not just on his human form, something she’d already noted and wanted to understand better, but also his large beast standing before her. He was the most enormous tiger she’d ever seen. Siberian, she was certain that was his breed. He had beautiful stripes across his entire body, but more than that, he had scars. Not just claws and teeth scars you’d expect from a rogue who’d seen heavy battle, but burns and whiplashings. There were straight cuts, obviously from torture devices. He was tortured. There was no other way to describe the intensity of his brandings and scars. Many overlapped others, showing years of this abuse—patches of baldness where his fur could no longer grow through the build

Brite looked around at his gasp in confusion before understanding crossed his face. “Ah. No need to pull a face like that, these are long healed. The stripes match what I've seen on the pelts of the big cats they sell up north." “But," Skye started to protest then paused, gathering his thoughts before ploughing on. “To have such deep scars and so many... The injures had to have happened over and over again, never allowed to heal for a long time to come up like that. And there is so many of them."

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.

I am not ashamed of all my scars as some of them I got protecting others. However, I don’t like others seeing them as they then expect an explanation of where they come from and some of them I am embarrassed about as not only were they given to me by Norman, but a werewolf isn’t meant to scar. There are only a few rare occasions when they can, like when one doesn’t always have access to their wolf and then is punished by a whip covered in silver mixed with wolfsbane so that any marks made leave at least a small scar.

she said, her voice barely above a whisper. I took a deep breath, my fingers trembling as I reached for the hem of her sweater. Slowly, with a gentleness that belied my anxiety, I lifted it, revealing the expanse of her back. It was a tapestry of torment, a brutal testament to pain she had endured. Unhealed scars crisscrossed her skin in a chaotic pattern, like a road map drawn by a hand driven by cruelty. They were no longer the angry red of fresh wounds, but had faded to a lighter shade, standing in stark contrast to her otherwise unblemished skin. The violent pattern they formed was chaotic, as if the whip had danced across her back with a reckless disregard for the pain it inflicted.

"I heard your little outburst about your taste in men. Men with scars on their neck, huh?" He tilted his head, deliberately showing his scar to her. Linessa laughed. "It's pretty..." She told him. "But you don't suit my taste." "And why is that?" "You're marked...you have a mate and perhaps even a kid. Go home to them."

My words trembled at the edges, barely louder than a whisper. "When the competition started, someone attacked me. They warned me not to win," I added, lowering my gaze as my legs began to tremble. Fear was crawling its way up my spine, one slow inch at a time. The memory of those eyes—cold, threatening—flashed across my mind. "I can’t shake the feeling that it’s connected to that pack."