Scars In The Hand Of Jesus Mga Nobela at Kwento

His fingers trailed down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake before gripping my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. My heart pounded as his hands slipped under my shirt, skimming over my boobs, tracing patterns only he knew. My breath hitched when his fingers found the hem of my top, tugging it up inch by inch. I didn’t stop him. Not until I saw the scar. I sucked in a sharp breath, my body freezing as my eyes flickered down. And there it was—ugly and cruel, reminding me of everything Giovanni had taken from me. Cristiano noticed and his hands stilled on me. His gaze softened, but there was no pity in his eyes. Just him. Just us.

"Jaden..." "Please. The veil. Let me see." She hesitated. Her hand hovered, then slowly, she pulled it away. My breath hitched. I had seen her wounded before. But never like this. Along the sides of her temple, trailing down her neck and disappearing beneath her robes, were faded scars looking like rashes, angry, unnatural ones. I reached for her hand and pushed her sleeve up. More scars everywhere all over her body. Some of them are ancient. Branding marks, purplish and jaded.

He only stared at me, his silence louder than any roar, as though the truth was too dangerous to give voice to. While these thoughts ran through my head, i felt him grip my wrist as he raised my hand pointing it at a scar on his chest, it wasn't like the others, it was mich bigger and longer, i noticed it at the beginning but i didn't give it much thought then but this time my eyes traced it down, the scar had the same tone with his skin like it had been there for too long and was already fading but if you looked closely you could identify it as a claw mark.

I ask, scoffing. He reaches out, taking Clem’s hands and placing them palm up in his. Her hands are worse than his face and her neck combined. A portion of her hand is missing. Her fingers are deformed and jagged. The scars move up her arm, wrapping around her skin, cutting into it as if the scar tissue were a chain, binding her to him.

I admit. He leans forward and places his large hand over my hands. “Consider this one a freebie, since you technically could have asked a makkari to do this for you,” he smirks. He leans back taking his hand with him and my eyes widen in disbelief as I see the scars have vanished from my hands. I flip my hands over examining my wrists, my palms, my fingers, but there’s not a single scar to be seen and I feel such relief at the sight. I throw him a wide smile, “Thank you!... Um, how do I address you? Do I say ‘God’? ‘My Lord’? ‘Your Holiness’?” I ask embarrassingly.

He slowly takes my hand into his, his expression soft. "Just let me see." I say nothing, gazing at him. He trails his fingers on my knuckles, holding my hand lightly. There is something different about his touch. Or perhaps I haven't touched a boy since my last boyfriend. He washes my hand with water, brushing gently. I am watching the side of his face, which is clean shaved, smooth. His lips are hot, beautiful, full. I look down at his hand, something catches my eye. He has a long scar across the inside of his wrist. It seems like it was a deep scar, stabbed by knife. And it seems new.

’’ I asked with a smile, and leapt to my feet in a hurry to approach her. She walked towards me with a blank face, and without uttering a single word, she grabbed my left hand in hers, and opened my palm. My palm had a horrible scar that looked like the twisted body of a centipede. It was long and thin, and following an excessive amount of time spent submerged in water, the large blister began to tear. ‘‘I'm fine…’’ I mumbled shortly while attempting to get away from her grip on my hand, but she resisted my efforts and instead gazed up at me with fury evident in her eyes.

Some whispered while others murmured their suspicions as they watched from a fair distance. “That scar on your hand…” He dropped his eyes down to my hand hanging in the air. I looked at the tip of the scar that ran all the way up the middle of my chest. What was once a long and deep wound from my father’s beta’s weekly punishment session had turned into a gruesome scar no one dares to lay eyes on for more than a second.

When she suddenly stopped, with her hand inches from my neck, screaming out in pain, I was able to move again. Stepping back, I looked at her wrist, which now had a handprint burned into her flesh. Her fingers were extended, and she seemed to be trying to pull her hand back, but something held it. I could hear her flesh sizzling as if she was still being burned. When Artemis was finally able to move her arm, she jumped a few feet away from me. The burn on her wrist quickly healed, but instead of disappearing, a scar remained. This was the first time I had seen a scar on a God.

It was a more intimate, more dangerous feeling than any desire she had ever felt for him. Her gaze traveled downward, following the line of his shoulder, the arm thrown over the pillow. And then she saw his hands. The hands that had bound her, sculpted her, possessed her. Now they rested inactive, open on the sheet. In the daylight, she could see the scars in sharp detail: old white cuts, thick yellowish calluses on the palms and fingertips, skin dry and cracked in places like the bark of an ancient tree. They were the hands of a laborer, of a man who wrestled with raw matter to extract beauty. They were physical proof of his vulnerability, of his constant struggle. They were not merely inst