Scars In The Hand Of Jesus Mga Nobela at Kwento

I turn my head back. He takes the towel and wraps me in it while also wrapping me up in his arms. My breathing gets heavy as I can feel his firm chest against my back. Sparks are trailing up and down my body. I am on fire, and he knows it. He leans down and whispers in my left ear. "Don't ever hide yourself from me. You're my blessing from the goddess." He kisses down my neck and stops when he gets to my scar. I'm still holding my hand over it. He removes my hand, "I'm sure we'll do something about this." He kisses the black scar a tingle runs through me. I moan; I'm turned on, and I know he can smell it.

Jesus Christ. Noir was built like some ancient warrior, all hard muscle and battle scars. His chest was broad and defined, abs cut so sharp they could probably slice paper. His arms were thick with muscle, veins visible under the skin, speaking of hours spent training and fighting. Every inch of him seemed carved to perfection, despite—or maybe because of—all the marks that violence had left behind. The scars only made him more beautiful in a dangerous, broken way. I wanted to ask him about them so badly.

Gently, slowly, he guided her hand up and down her body, ran their fingers along each and every scar. He left the largest one for last, knowing that this was the one that frightened and disgusted her the most. That asshole had sliced her from her breastbone straight down the middle of her body, all the way to her navel. The scar was thick and raised, an angry, vivid purple, and every time she looked at it, she remembered how terrified she had been at that moment. She'd truly thought he was going to gut her like a fish; she'd thought she was going to die.

“Why, let me treat your wound.” “No need, go out.” “Atlas, why are you so stubborn? Can't you see your hand is bleeding a lot? If you continue to delay, you will bleed to death. Do you want to die?" Having finished speaking, she ignored this man and pushed his hand aside, she directly lifted his sleeve. But as soon as she lifted it and looked at the man's arm, she couldn't help but take a breath of cold air. His hand has many scars, they look very scary, some are bulging and even patchy, the two colors blue and red mixed look a bit brutal, this arm is no different from a demon's arm. Evil in the horror movies she often watches.

Hand. My hand trembled and twitched as I opened it slowly. At the same time, we both looked down to see the symbolic rune of strength burned into my palm. However, it looked… faded. ‘What the fuck?’ He gently lifted my hand to get a better look, ‘It’s all fading.’ Furrowing my brows, I scanned my arms. Ev was right, the blisters and redness and scars were all disappearing like nothing happened at all. Like it was all a dream. But it wasn’t; he saw it, too.

When she’d seen his back, the smooth skin where the scars of the battles and the scars from Hade’s whipping should have been, she’d suspected. But kneeling, burning in nothing but his skin … There were no scars where there should have been. The almost-necklace of them from the Golgota gone. The shackle marks from the coffin gone. The scar where he’d break his own arm: gone. And on his palms It was upon his exposed palms that Isak now gazed. As if realizing what was missing.

#Joel’s POV# Her scar is right there under my palm, the faint raised line against the warm, damp skin of her back. It’s thinner than I expected. A pale, almost silvery line in the low light, like the quietest reminder of everything she’s been through. My hand almost hesitates there, like I don’t deserve to touch this part of her, the part that marks a battle I didn’t fight, the part I wasn’t there to protect her from. But I’m here now, and my palm curves around it gently, memorizing the shape, the warmth, the resilience underneath it.

I never knew was there. Lifting the bandage I saw, her skin was pink, a small scar was on her once unmarked skin I touch it with my fingers as I will the moon goddess's gift to my fingers to remove the scar. A spark tingled to my fingertips, spilling a bright light from my hand as heat entered my mate’s skin. A moment later, I removed my hand smooth unblemished skin greeted my eyes. I did the same with the wound on her abdomen, but I couldn’t remove all the scar tissue. She would have a reminder of that night, no matter what she did. I touch the tiny scar, wishing there was more I could do.

“I think we can make provisions for that. Let me look at your wounds, okay?” She picked up her shirt, and he found no scarring at all from where the bullets had entered her. She lowered the straps of her tank top for him to check out her back. “Well that’s interesting. Nowhere on your belly or chest is there any scarring, but there is some back here by your shoulder blades. Jesus!” He took a step back and raked his hands through his hair. “What? What? You’re scaring me! What is it?” “It’s just that these scars…these scars look like a scepter…surrounded by a pair of…of angel’s wings. Call me crazy, but that’s what I’m seeing. Take a look!” He brought her to the bathroom mirror and turned her

I cannot help biting my lip – just the edge of it! – as Christian lifts up his shirt and reveals his very…very defined stomach muscles. But my intrigue on that point is immediately dashed when I see the huge scar that stretches across his left side, moving from his ribs almost to his navel. “Christian!” I gasp, again horrified, leaning forward and pressing my hand to the scar almost as if I could heal it, make it disappear. “What – what happened!?”