Romans & histoires Synopsis Of Under Your Scars: A Dark Romance Novel

Finally, he murmured, “I consulted a top dermatologist. He suggested an ointment for the scarring. I bought it for you.” Rosa’s eyes lifted to his in taunting scrutiny. Of course. Typical. To a man like him, only the surface mattered. He didn't care about the wound he'd left on her soul—he just wanted her skin to be perfect again. She couldn't stop herself from snapping, “Does the scar make me look that ugly to you?” Luciano’s face darkened, his brow furrowing at her tone. “Nothing can ruin you as long as I’m breathing,” he whispered.

But that could have been the guy two nights ago. I carefully slipped out from under his arm, moving slowly, more to keep my stomach contents down than fear of waking him. His place was a mess-- dirty underwear, empty bowls, pizza boxes, and beer cans littered the floor. I found my skirt tossed in a corner, a dark stain on the hem. Were we drinking red wine? I couldn't remember, but I slid the skirt on anyway and searched for the rest of my clothes.

Ethan's voice sliced through the room as he stormed in, yanking me off her. Weak from the miscarriage, I stumbled back from his shove, crashing into the table. Pain shot through me, and tears blurred my vision. Forcing myself to stand, I pointed at Bella. "She doesn't have hemophilia! She's been lying to you and tossing out my blood—check the trash if you don't believe me!" "Enough, Grace," he snapped, ice-cold and dismissive. "I can't believe you'd stoop this low, accusing Bella like that."

The orgasm he had commanded out of me had been devastating, ripping through me with such force that I had bitten my own wrist to keep from crying out loud enough for Aunt Dolores or the other sisters to hear. The golden scar low on my belly glowed faintly beneath the thin nightdress, a warm, living pulse that matched the frantic beat of my heart. I pressed both palms over it, trying desperately to smother the heat, but the moment my skin made contact the warmth only spread lower, blooming between my legs like an answering flame. My breath hitched. This scar, the one Drake had sealed with his dragon scale after that botched theft, had never behaved like ordinary flesh. Tonight it felt alive w

The reminder that he risked his life for me. “I love this scar,” I whispered before kissing it. My lips lingered, trailing down to his jaw, his neck. He groaned when my hand slipped beneath his waistband, closing around him. “Naughty girl,” he growled, low and rough. His hands yanked the towel off my body and tossed it to the floor. He scooped me up and carried me to the center of the bed, laying me down like I was both fragile and dangerous. I smirked up at him, heat curling low in my stomach. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Last chance to tell me no, Zora. His eyes search hers, still giving her the choice-even as his body screams for her. She rips the buttons off his shirt with force he doesn’t expect her to have, surprised which doesn’t happen often. A low sound escapes him-surprise, desire, something raw. Christ, Zora Val says as buttons scatter across the floor, shirt hanging open, revealing his-scarred, muscled, chest marked by a life lived dangerously. He doesn’t move to stop her or help, just watches, then his restraint shatters. His hands find her waist, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around him instinctively as he carries her to the bed. The mattress gives beneath them. You’re stronger than you

You wouldn't know their weak points nor where to hit. ‎ That must've been why Kael felt frustrated trying to trigger him. ‎ ‎Good job, Alyssa. You just had a near death experience but survived by turning in an application for becoming the amusement of a psychotic, sadistic barbarian who, turns out, is the head of one of the most dangerous organisation in the state and you might not even be able to make it to the end of year. ‎One wrong move and your head might be gifting space in all it's bloodied glory while you watch in high spirits.

Amara stared back, trying to project a semblance of stillness, refusing to betray the sheer terror gripping her. ​Emiliano stared at her for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be assessing her, her fear, her presence in his bed. He slowly walked around the bed, stopping on his side. ​He reached up, pulling his undershirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto a nearby chair. Amara couldn't breathe. Her gaze involuntarily dropped, taking in the powerful breadth of his chest, the taut lines of his abdomen, and the faint, intricate scars—silent trophies of a violent life—that crisscrossed his left shoulder.

She asked curiously but something doesn't add up. I mean I have asked him about the scars and he insinuated that it was BDSM gone wrong and honestly I didn't think much of it because that was when we just lost our parents and he was a little rebellious at that point but I still think she got the wrong guy... I mean now I understand why she fled immediately she saw him shirtless but anyone could have a similar scar, right?

“We… even had sex.” He froze, then burst into laughter, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s a new one,” he said. “You women never run out of tricks. Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not interested. Especially not in a married woman.” I shook my head, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m not lying.” He smirked. “Right.” “I was eighteen,” I said, the memories crashing in. “Seven years ago. We met in a bar and it led to a one night stand situation. You didn’t even tell me your name. You disappeared the next morning before I even woke up.”