Scars In The Hand Of Jesus Novels & Stories

Before he knew it, his free hand was moving, and his fingertips were grazing the scars. The demon froze. "Mortal," It hissed, "Remove your hand." Fyn didn't. He boldly moved his hand across the demon's chest, his brows furrowed. Fyn often thought that demons had miraculous healing abilities and that their skin would be flawless. He was mistaken. The arm tightly coiled around him got tighter as the demon sharply inhaled. Growling lightly, a tail coiled around his hand that was on the demon's chest and stopped it from moving.

Scars — ancient ones — in straight lines and circles, each one telling a story of a fight he survived across… who knows how many decades. It’s beautiful… and brutal. My fingers take on a life of their own as they touch him slowly, the tips tracing one of the scars across the middle of his abdomen — rigid as stone. Suddenly, his hand shoots up and grabs mine, making me gasp. His eyes are still closed. — You can look, but don’t touch. Jesus. How long has he been awake, feeling my eyes on him? His lids lift slowly. Those deep brown eyes find mine without mercy, and my blood burns.

Tears stained his cheeks. “Yes, it’s me. Please, I know you hated my people but know that I have nothing to do with them. They tried to kill me too. I tried to save Asher and Zara but they dragged me away. They tortured me.” He held out his arm that has an ugly burned scar around it. Eve’s gazed soften.

Grace nearly dropped the soap. Scars, large and small, crossed his torso. She'd seen bullet scars before. There were two right next to each other under his left arm. She was so focused on the terrible scars that she barely noticed the black, abstract, curvilinear tattoos on his chest and shoulders. They were fierce, with what looked like stylized talons interwoven with curving, concentric whiplash curves. He was bruised almost black on his right side. More tattoos covered his wrists and elbows in precise, flowing patterns made up of repeating geometric shapes. The burn scar on his left hand was part of a larger burn that marred the tattoo right up to his elbow.

Then slowly, carefully, he reached for the hem of his ruined, blood-soaked shirt and started pulling it off. I immediately looked away. Then immediately looked back again like my brain hated me. Because Jesus Christ. Even injured, Dante still somehow looked unfairly beautiful in the most dangerous way possible. His body was covered in old scars now that I could properly see him under the room light. Some were thin knife scars. Some looked deeper. One stretched faintly across his ribs while another disappeared near his shoulder. And suddenly I realized something painful. Those scars were old. Meaning this life had been hurting him long before I ever met him.

The man stared at my hand without a word. Then, in the next moment, he grasped my hand. However, he did not grab the left hand I had reached out, but the right one I had kept hidden behind me. "No men are allowed in here. You could have ended me just now, so why save me?" I opened my hand, revealing the mottled scars and dried blood. Deep, jagged wounds ran along my flesh, not from falling on the ground, but from sharp instruments.

What I saw inside the envelope made me nauseous. It’s a picture of a man with full of blood. There’s also a picture of its back with a words engrave in it. THE HUNT STARTS NOW! -JMJ What the hell?

Then he let go of my hands and stepped back. “What are you doing?” I whispered when his fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. “There's something I want to show you,” he said, shrugging off the shirt and exposing his naked skin. Then he turned around, and I gasped. Goddess, I should have noticed it sooner, but as shameful as it might sound, the last time I had a chance to see his naked, muscled back, my eyes drifted to his lower parts… Now I saw it clearly. Four visible claw marks extended from right below his shoulders, almost to the area of his waist. The scars had dark edges as if the skin had been burned and remained that way. My breath caught as I realized what those scars meant. Unknowin

She reached out, her fingers trembling as she gently lifted his left hand. The lightning broke through the window, casting a sliver of violent light across his palm. Panni’s breath hitched. There, running across his lifeline, was a maggot-white scar—a jagged, ugly mark that Jinyan did not have. Jinyan’s hands were scarred from the mountains, yes, but this was an old wound, a relic of a basement and a childhood spent in the shadows. "Searching for something, Panni?" The voice was a whip-crack in the dark.

He didn't just own the city; he controlled its lifeblood. Her trembling hands reached for his shirt, the first button slipping through her fingers. She fumbled with it for a few moments before finally unbuttoning it, revealing his taut muscles beneath. The scars that came on her sight were marred on his skin like they were symbols of battles fought and won, a constant reminder of who he was—a conqueror in the underworld. One particularly nasty scar ran across his ribs, the stitches still visible in the dim light.