Scraped Knuckles Novels & Stories

Jared Richardson, the legal director, adjusted his glasses, pulled a damage assessment report stamped with an official seal from his briefcase, and threw it straight at Dexter's face. Jared said, "Read it carefully. One scratch costs 120 thousand dollars. Based on the complete surveillance footage we obtained, you caused a total of five scratches. Add to that the two custom puncture-resistant tires you slashed, the soundproof glass you shattered, and all the other damage—" Jared looked at him and stated the final amount, "The total compensation comes to 4.12 million dollars." Dexter snapped his head up and stared at me. The arrogance and smugness in his eyes had completely vanished. All that

She whimpered again. "Stay still while I untangle it" he instructed as he carefully worked on the hair, it was a bit difficult considering the uncomfortable position he was . She watched him work on the button and tried not to whine whenever he pulled her hair, she wanted to give him the credit since he was trying so hard not to hurt her. She watched as he frowned at the button , his chiseled face was like a sculpture, he had thick and roughly carved brows she felt like running her hands on them.

Before she can say a single word, I strike. I swing my sleeve mace across her face. The broken shards of glass and stoneware rip into her flesh. The tray of oatmeal goes flying and crashing to the floor along with Karen. She hits the ground with a thud; her head bounces as it hits the hard floor. Her face ripped and torn from my attack. I search her for the key to the silver cuff on my ankle. I need to contact Alpha Mason, but I can't do that with the silver cuff binding me and blocking my ability to mind link. I searched her, but I didn't find anything.

Deep amber-gold, catching the weak winter light the way embers catch a breeze. My hands were the worst. Fingers shortening and thickening, knuckles popping in rapid succession like someone snapping a bundle of dry sticks. The sound was obscene this close to my own ears. Nails blackened, curved, broke through the beds with a sting that was almost surgical in its precision then kept curving. Pads swelled beneath them. Palms that had been human seconds ago were now something entirely other, and the skin between my fingers stung tight as it fused and split and refused to decide which shape it belonged to.

The pad of Gunner's thumb was wide and rough. Rough in the specific way that came from years of gripping a stick and throwing punches, calloused and broad, and entirely unlike the careful softness Khyle might have expected from someone tending to an injury. It scraped, just barely, against the small split skin of his lip, a contrast so stark between the size of the touch and the size of what it was touching that Khyle's whole body seemed to recalibrate around it.

She says. I removed my hand from the light and what seemed to be a skeletal blueprint before, it immediately materialized the moment I removed my hand. Now, there was a shear glove over my left hand. I tried making a fist and saw micro scales moving. I even feel my knuckles hardening just enough but it was not too constricting. “You said you don’t want your knuckles to turn soft. The shell is hard, but it doesn't protect your knuckles that much so you can still keep your calluses.”

The rubble began to creak as I stepped on a particularly loose brick. Shit! I needed to go slower and watch where I step. With consideration and measured steps I made it safely and quietly off the mass of wreckage to grab the bat. I just needed to get past without alerting them to my presence but how? I noticed a shining object in a clutter near the left of my body. What was that? Is that a shard from a mirror? I can use that to see where they were. I slowly made my way towards the clutter to pick the shard up. The fragment itself was dirty and covered in grime but that was an easy fix. I quickly cleaned the piece off with my shirt and tested the reflection. I could clearly see the buildings

With that, the door slammed shut behind them. - Luna stood there, gripping the counter until her knuckles turned white. She turned toward the shower with steam already filling the bathroom. Getting undressed felt huge. Her fingers fumbled with buttons, each movement sending waves of sickness through her. Finally, she got the nightgown off and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Luna right away wished she hadn't. Bruises covered her arms, her ribs. Some fading to yellow. Others fresh and purple. A map of abuse written on her skin.

The palm was broad, the fingers long and powerful. But it was the knuckles that told the story. They were thick, calloused, and bore the faint, white jagged lines of old scar tissue, the kind of scarring earned not from kitchen work, but from the repeated, violent impact of bone against bone. "Look at the radial bone," Julian whispered, pointing at the screen. "Look at the grip strength required to hold those shears at that specific angle. That is a masculine hand. More specifically, it is a hand that has been trained to kill."

I flinched at his action. His knuckles were bleeding. He was growling in anger and pain. Seeing his knuckles bleed, my heart dropped in my stomach. His fist was bleeding very badly. I started sobbing more loudly. I tried to take it in my hands to see the damage but he snatched it. “Don't touch me,” he shouted. I started sobbing and tried to control the hiccups but it was not in my hands.