Death To The Curse

𝔗𝔴𝔬

ℨ𝔞𝔯𝔞

"I'm not going to fist-fight you, Zara," Cody says, rolling his eyes. He knew I'd win. He was scared. I always used to beat him when we were growing up. He'd never yet been able to out win me in a fight. Admittedly though, he always refused to punch me, and I'd never really punched him. We'd wrestled until it got weird when we were older. We trained together a lot in the gym though. He knew how hard I could hit.

"Why? You scared?" I taunt, fists up protecting my face. It was taking everything in me not to laugh. I'd love to be a fly on the wall looking in. I looked absolutely ridiculous. But, I was trying to lighten the mood to make him happy enough to piss off and leave me be. There was nothing he could say that would make me go back.

"I've never been less scared, in my entire life. You're so small it's not even threatening." smiling, them dimples finally make their grand entrance. I just want to stick my finger in them, they're so cute and hot at the same time. He folds his leather jacket over his arm, his short sleeve t-shirt showing off some scars at the top of his bicep. The ink of his tattoo had disappeared leaving a white mark. The scar had healed without the ink underneath his skin. Whatever had done this, it had been deep. I drop my hands and frown.

"What's that?" I ask pointing at his arm. He never had any scares before I left. We weren't supposed to scar.

He looks down at his arm where I'm pointing, frowns and then pulls his leather jacket back on. "It's nothing."

I mourn the loss of the beautiful biceps on show, scars or not, his arms were sexy as fuck. They were big I feel like I could swing on them for hours and he wouldn't tire. But they weren't too big that he looked like a walking muscle machine. I loved some muscle, but too much gave me the ick.

"No, it isn't nothing. Come here let me see." Storming over to him, I grab the sleeve of his leather jacket, my black acrylic nails digging into the material. He pulls back, but I don't budge. I smirk. Told you I was strong.

"Take it off," I demand. I needed to see what had happened to him while I was gone. Our kind was never marked with scars unless another one of us did the damage.

"No! Stop trying to take my clothes off!"

"Don't flatter yourself, I don't want to take your clothes off," Lie, "I just want to see why you've got a scar on your arm." Still fighting over the arm of his jacket, I pull him toward me, and he stumbles forward. I move to the right just before he bashes into me, and I grab his leather jacket by the hem at the back. I pull it tightly while jumping back, sliding it over his head and down his arms. He ended up hunched over, nearly on the ground.

He jolts up straight, anger seething through his features. Different shapes and sizes of white marks where the ink was missing covered his arms, torso and I imagine his back is covered too. I couldn't even appreciate the fact this tattoo-covered body was showing because I was so sad, angry and fuming. The scars were everywhere, every single one a reminder of how alone he'd been.

Now, it's my turn to fume. "What the fuck, happened to you," I demand, looking at his face.

His eyes shift to the ground, shame and embarrassment running through his face. And It was me who was making him feel this way by forcing him to. "Nothing, just drop it, give me my clothes back."

Guilt pangs through me and I give him his jacket and t-shirt back. "Sorry," I whisper. I was livid. Absolutely fucking fuming. Whoever had done this to him was going to get it.

All these years, I'd thought it was best for me to leave him behind to protect his sister and the others. And yet, there was no one to protect him. He didn't need protecting, he was a grown man, but I guarantee that he'd gone through all of this alone, not telling anybody about what he'd experienced.