Scraped Knuckles Novels & Stories

Killian’s tan work boots land on the mushrooms, crushing them into pulp, as he bounds to loom over the human, fangs bared, claws unsheathed. Screams pierce the air. There’s the scent of piss. ShroomForager3000 scrambles backwards like a crab. My mushrooms are brown goo. There are a handful intact, but they glitter with glass shards. Morels have so many ridges, even if I soak and rinse them, I can’t be sure to get them clean. They are all ruined.

All the joints are broken and just hanging on the skin. Nicko immediately said nonchalantly, “With your present hand, I thought you created paper shapes naturally. If you want to make rock, you must make a fist with five fingers; if you are making scissors, make your fingers look like a V, do you understand?” Julia sobbed and said through the pain, “Young Master, all ten of my fingers have been broken. How can I make a rock and scissor shape?”

With his free hand, Raphael grabbed a glass jar full of pickled eggs from the display rack. He brought it down with absolute force straight onto the pervert’s right knee. The glass shattered into thousands of sharp pieces. The heavy liquid mixed with the blood on the floor, and the man let out a high-pitched scream as his kneebone split completely apart.

"What I said was I don't need *you* to be afraid." Cain's hand did not move beneath hers. Her fingers pressed down one by one on the back of his hand. As if counting something. His knuckles arched slightly under her palm. The second joint of his index finger bore the thick callus of a sword grip. The third joint of his middle finger carried an old blade scar. The edge of his pinky held a thin patch of chilblain scarring. In the same position as the faint red mark on the webbing of her thumb.

The instant Kade and Piper left, Dona grabbed my right hand. "Ow!" I jerked back, pain shooting through my knuckles. Dona narrowed her eyes at me, then grabbed my hand again. I tried to pull away again but she held on tightly. We scuffled for a second, her pinching and slapping at my hand until I finally gave in and let her have it. She turned my hand over in hers and examined the bruises on my knuckles. Ugly purple and yellow marks spread across the skin. "So, would you care to tell me why you have bruises all over your knuckles?" She asked with a tone of sarcasm.

“Good.” My wolf stirs. “What about the other?” Nate’s mouth tightens. “Escaped. But.” He lifts his scraped hand slightly. “Not clean.” He opens his fingers. A sliver of dark wax sits in his palm, smeared with lint, like he scraped it from a seal mid motion. Pressed into it is a mark: a simple K cut deep enough to feel even without seeing. My pulse spikes. “K,” I whisper. Rowan Kane.

Raking across our skin. With a snarl, Nova, again, took the opening. Ignoring the sting of the cuts, she grabbed the leg that had scratched us. Grinding down until we felt the bone snap from the force. He tried to pry it free, causing more damage as the bones broke again from the effort. With one more jerk, he pulled away. But it was too late. The limb had been rendered useless.

Two women, one of whom it turned out spoke decent English, cooked bones in a broth. The younger woman wanted to know where he was from. He told her. She laughed, saying “Aussie-Aussie-Aussie-Oi-Oi-Oi!” He asked her what they were cooking, and the older woman leaned in close. Too close “These are knuckles,” she whispered. Danny smelled something on her breath. Something familiar. What was it? Yes, licorice. “Do you have arthritis?” “No.” “Too bad,” the woman replied. “Eating knuckles helps sore hands.” She smiled at him once more, showing off the spaces between her missing teeth, tongue pushing up to fill the gaps. “Eat the part that hurts. Where do you hurt?”

His skin has some colour to it and his eyes shine with happiness. “What’s going on?” I ask. Knox doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds out his hand to me, and I take it without hesitation. His skin feels warm and solid. He feels alive as he leads me into the trees and into a small clearing. A pale green checked blanket and a brown wicker basket in almost fill the space. I sit down on the blanket beside him, our hands still entwined. I study his hand in mine, the veins in his arm, the scars on his knuckles, all the little details that make him real. How is this happening?

Scar threw her arm around his neck and kissed him deeply. She bent and started kissing all over his chest. She moved up and down and forward and backward and side to side, not missing an inch of his flesh. He ran his fingers through her hair, caressing her scalp, and rubbing his other hand over her back. She started to move lower, coming down to his already stiff cock, grasping it in one hand and cradling his balls with the other as her mouth wrapped hungrily around the head.