Wanna Know How I Got These Scars Novels & Stories

Waist dimple has always been an attraction I can't resist in women, if it does describe me as being bi-sexual then I don't mind. I held my shoulder with both hands making my breast compressed against them. My skin wasn't as shining as milk because I still had bruises from my preadolescence days and I haven’t gotten a proper medication for treating them. Scars that were given to me by a monster in the form of a relative. Revenge was all I could think of.

he grinned brightly and I shrugged my shoulders. I stood under the warm spray, the king's release flowing down my inner thighs. What in the world was I thinking? I frowned and scrubbed myself occasionally bumping into the man himself. He asked for the soap and I dropped the bar into his hand. He grinned at me and I rolled my eyes as I started washing my hair. I felt him touching my back scars again. "How did you get these," he asked me. "From a whip for stealing food," I mumbled softly and he laughed. I turned and scowled at the ass. I shook my head and exited the shower drying myself off quickly. I wrapped the towel around myself and watched Mortas drying himself.

My mind felt like it was muddled up so I moved to her neck to try to focus. "Flip." She ordered. I gently moved to the side and let her move her legs. I settled into the middle of the bed and she climbed on top of me. I pushed her shirt up and she lifted her arms so I could take it off of her. She had on the underwear I bought. It looked so sexy on her and it made me harder to see her in just a bra. She had such a sexy body, but her skin was covered in scars. I rubbed my thumb over the one and she looked down at what I was staring at. "Oh, that's from some idiot who took a swing at me with his Kutana." She explained and I touched another scar. "That one is when 4 people ganged up on me at my

My skin, luminous and as pale as the moon. His fingers skim my collarbone, leaving a flutter of sparks as he moves my hair to hang down my back. I see it. two black puncture scars with beautiful and intricate black vines, with flowers and what looks like ivy leaves. It trails from the punctures down my side and over my new and improved curves. It weaves around my leg like a snake and stops on my foot.

Hating him was always easier, but this – all of this unplanned and crazy scenarios – keeps messing with my thoughts, and emotions, and sometimes, my body too. Turning to get comfortable in my last seconds of consciousness, I feel a sudden twinge of pain from my wrist. A thought nudges me to check it out. I roll up my sleeve and find a scar—freshly cut and still oozing a bit of blood. The mark resembles claw slashes, three long, jagged cuts. Memories of my battle with the wolf flash across my mind, and I suddenly recognize the origin of the wound. But it makes no sense. If I was just sleepwalking, how did I get this scar?

Even if it means I have to take a non-traditional route. When I finished my work and looked out the window, I noticed it was already late. I walked to my room and stripped down to take a shower. I was naked in front of the mirror, and I could see the extensive scar Cole had left on my stomach. On my arms, thighs, and one close to my neck, I had several faint but noticeable marks. It was the most gruesome experience of my life.

“What if it was all a dream? What if none of that ever happened?” “Brook?” My mother’s voice turns cautious behind me. I turn sharply, and her gaze drops to my bare stomach. I’m wearing a tank top. “When did you get that scar?” She asks softly, confused. “What scar?” I say, looking down. The air leaves my lungs in one sharp rush as soon as I see it. A faint, healed scar on my stomach. On the exact spot Lance had stabbed me. My fingers tremble as I reach out and touch it. It’s real. Jesus Christ!

Dangerous. Her gaze drifted to my chest, to the scars that crisscrossed my skin. Old shrapnel wounds from the border wars. A knife scar from a duel in the barracks. I stiffened. I wanted to cover myself. I didn't want her to see the damage. I didn't want her to see the map of violence etched into me. "You have a lot of scars," she said softly. Her fingers hovered over a jagged white line near my shoulder. "I have lived a long life," I said curtly.

"Stop stuttering, it's so lame." He burst into laughter, lifting me up and placing me on the bed. "So will you tell me everything about you? Every single thing." I nodded, relieved that it wasn't what I was thinking. "The scar, I got it from an accident." "Where?" I tried to find the words to say. I couldn't possibly tell him it was from the fire when I was pushed down and my head landed on a brick. "Well, I fell off the stairs at Mrs. Smith's house."

The woman at his back lets out a whimper as Connor asks me the stupid question. “You brought me back to my father, the last fuckin’ place I want to be; get me out of here.” I snarl at him while pulling the tubes and wires from the back of my hand and my chest; it's only when I pull the sticky pad off my left pec that I notice a scar I don’t recognise. It's a long scar that looks a few years old; it's well past the healing stages and if I didn’t know my own body, I don't think I'd even notice it.