Under Your Scars
Everly is on the run, desperate to escape her abusive ex and the scars he left behind. She finds an unlikely protector in Zade, an intimidating and heavily tattooed artist who sees the survivor beneath her fear. He becomes fiercely protective, determined to be her shield against the darkness that haunts her. As their raw, intense connection deepens, the threat from her past resurfaces, testing a powerful love that promises not just to save her, but to heal her completely.
Buy the book on AmazonHighlighting Quotes
- 1. He wasn't the monster in my story. He was the one who was going to slay them.
- 2. I’ll trace every scar you have, and I’ll love them. I’ll love them because they are a part of you. And I love you.
- 3. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just surviving. I was living.
Chapter 1: A Shadow in the Diner
In the perpetual twilight of a city that never fully slept, Madison existed in the weary space between survival and surrender. Her life was a carefully constructed fortress of anonymity, built with the cheap materials of a rundown apartment and a dead-end job at a 24-hour diner. Each day was a repetition of the last, a cycle of wiping down sticky tables, refilling coffee cups, and forcing smiles for tired truckers and lonely night owls. This monotonous rhythm was her shield, a deliberate blandness designed to make her invisible. She was running, not just from a place but from a person—a ghost with a name, Trent, whose possessive cruelty had bleached all the color from her world. Here, in the greasy-spoon sanctuary of lukewarm coffee and fluorescent lights, she was just another face, and that was the safest thing she could be.
But safety is a fragile illusion. It shattered on a Tuesday night so ordinary it felt like a betrayal. The bell above the door chimed, a dissonant note in the quiet hum of the diner, and a presence flooded the room, so immense and chilling it seemed to suck the very warmth from the air. He didn't just walk in; he consumed the space. Every head turned, then quickly turned away. Whispers died in throats, and the clatter of cutlery ceased. Madison, wiping down the counter, felt the change like a drop in barometric pressure, a primal warning of an approaching storm. She looked up, and her breath caught. He was a man carved from unforgiving stone and shadowed nightmares. Tall and broad, dressed in a tailored black suit that screamed wealth and danger, his very stillness was a threat. But it was his face that held the room captive in a terrified silence. The left side was a brutal tapestry of scar tissue, a story of violence and fire written across his skin, pulling at his eye and twisting his lip into a permanent, unnerving sneer. He was beautiful and terrifying, a fallen angel who had clearly clawed his way back from hell.
Her coworker, a young woman named Chloe, shrank back, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t go over there, Maddy,” she hissed. “That’s him. The Beast. Aleksandr ‘Sasha’ Volkov. They say he’s the Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva.” The name meant little to Madison, but the fear it inspired was a universal language. Yet, as the man’s one good eye, a chip of arctic blue, swept the room and landed on her, she didn't feel the same paralyzing terror as the others. Instead, a strange, unwelcome current of empathy stirred within her. She knew scars. Hers weren't on her skin, but they were just as deep, just as disfiguring. Without a second thought, she picked up a menu and walked toward his booth, her footsteps the only sound in the tomb-like silence.
“Welcome to The Night Owl,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Coffee?” He didn't speak. He simply watched her, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch, tracing the lines of her face, her worn uniform, the tremor in her hand she tried so hard to hide. She saw a flicker of something in that icy blue eye—not anger, not menace, but… surprise. As if he had expected revulsion, fear, or pity, and her simple, professional courtesy was a thing he couldn't comprehend. He gave a curt nod. She poured the coffee, her movements deliberate and calm. He followed her every move. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken things. Madison could feel the weight of his loneliness, a desolate aura that was more intimidating than any rumored brutality. It was a loneliness she recognized, a mirror to her own.
For the next hour, he sat there, nursing the single cup of coffee, watching. He was a predator, and she was the fascinating, inexplicable creature that had wandered into his line of sight. Madison tried to go about her work, but she was intensely aware of him. She felt his gaze on her back as she served other customers, as she laughed at a trucker’s bad joke, as she wiped away a spill. It wasn't lecherous or overtly threatening; it was possessive. It was the look of a man who had just found something he didn't even know he was looking for, and had already decided it belonged to him. When he finally stood to leave, he placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table for a two-dollar coffee. As he passed her, his voice, a low, gravelly rumble with a thick Russian accent, finally broke the silence. “Madison,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He knew her name. The blood drained from her face. How could he possibly know her name? The fortress she had so carefully built had just been breached, not by the ghost from her past, but by a monster she had willingly served coffee to. As the door chimed behind him, leaving a vacuum of cold air, Madison knew, with a certainty that terrified her to her core, that her life of invisibility was over.
Chapter 2: The Beast with Gentle Hands
The hundred-dollar bill on the table was more than a tip; it was a promise and a threat, a calling card from a world Madison had no desire to enter. In the days that followed, the shadow of Aleksandr Volkov lingered long after he had gone. He returned to the diner every night at the same time, settling into the same booth, ordering the same black coffee. He never spoke beyond a guttural "Coffee," and yet his silent presence dominated Madison's entire shift. She became the sole object of his unnerving focus. Her coworkers gave her a wide, fearful berth, treating her as if she were marked. And in a way, she was. Aleksandr’s arctic gaze was a brand, claiming her in a way that made the hairs on her arms stand up. She felt trapped, not by walls, but by the sheer, immovable force of his will. He was studying her, learning her rhythms, her smiles, the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was an unnerving, intimate scrutiny from a complete stranger, a man rumored to be a killer.
The fragile peace she had curated for herself was crumbling. The fear of Trent, her violent ex, had been a constant, dull ache in the background of her life. But this new fear was sharp, acute, and immediate. It culminated one evening as she walked home, the city streets a labyrinth of dark alleys and looming buildings. A sleek, black car, as dark and menacing as its owner, slid to a silent stop beside her. The back window lowered, revealing Aleksandr Volkov, his scarred face illuminated by the eerie glow of the streetlights. “Get in, Madison,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her. This was it. The moment her life tilted off its axis. “No,” she managed to say, her voice a reedy whisper. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
A flicker of something—amusement? respect?—crossed his features. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The power he radiated was more compelling than any shout. “Your ex-boyfriend, Trent, he is in the city. He has been asking about you. He is a weak, pathetic man, but even a rat can bite. You are not safe. You will be safe with me. Get in the car.” The mention of Trent’s name was like a physical blow. The old fear, the one she had run a thousand miles to escape, surged back with a vengeance. Suddenly, the monster in the car seemed like a different kind of danger—not the malicious, unpredictable cruelty of Trent, but something more calculated, more absolute. A choice between two predators. She looked at the scarred man who watched her with an unreadable expression and made a decision born of pure desperation. She got in the car.
The drive was silent, a journey into the heart of a gilded cage. They arrived at a mansion that was less a home and more a modern fortress, a monolith of glass and steel perched on a cliff overlooking the city. Inside, the opulence was staggering, a stark contrast to her own meager existence. It was a world of cold marble, priceless art, and silent, watchful men in suits. It was beautiful, but it had no warmth, no soul. It was a reflection of the man himself. Aleksandr led her to a lavish suite of rooms, telling her they were hers. “You will not leave this house without my permission,” he stated, his tone flat and final. “You will have everything you need. But you will be mine to protect.” The words hung in the air: mine to protect. Not mine to hurt, or mine to own, but mine to protect. It was a strange and unsettling distinction.
In the days that turned into a week, Madison existed in a state of suspended reality. She was a prisoner, yet she was treated with a bizarre, almost reverent care. Aleksandr was a creature of stark contradictions. She saw him conduct business in his office, his voice a cold blade as he issued orders that made his subordinates flinch. She saw the casual violence of his world, the way his men deferred to him with a mixture of loyalty and pure terror. He was every bit the beast rumor claimed him to be. And yet, with her, he was different. He would simply watch her, as he had in the diner, as if her very presence was a balm to his tormented soul. One evening, she found him in the library, staring at his reflection in a dark window, his hand tracing the scarred side of his face with a look of such profound self-loathing that it made her chest ache. Without thinking, she walked over to him. He tensed, expecting her to recoil. Instead, she reached out and gently placed her hand on his arm. His entire body went rigid, a statue of corded muscle. He hadn't been touched with kindness in years, perhaps decades. He didn’t pull away. He simply stood there, trembling almost imperceptibly under her touch. In that moment, Madison saw past the monster, past the Bratva Pakhan, and saw a man drowning in his own pain. The beast had a broken heart, and his hands, which could surely crush a man’s skull, were surprisingly, achingly gentle as he eventually, hesitantly, covered her hand with his own.
Chapter 3: Into the Lion's Den
Living in Aleksandr Volkov’s fortress was like living inside a breathtakingly beautiful, intricately designed clock. Everything ran on a schedule of silent, deadly precision. Guards patrolled the perimeter with the fluid grace of predators, conversations were held in hushed, serious tones, and Aleksandr himself was the mainspring, the central force around which everything and everyone revolved. Madison was the anomaly, the wild, unpredictable gear thrown into the works. At first, she felt like a ghost haunting the opulent halls, an object of curiosity for the household staff and a puzzle for the stoic bodyguards. They treated her with a formal, hands-off respect, under strict orders from their boss. She had every material comfort imaginable—fine food, luxurious clothes, a library filled with any book she could desire—but she was suffocating from the lack of freedom and genuine human connection.
Her defiance, which had been a spark in the diner, began to kindle into a quiet fire. She refused to be a decorative object in his gilded cage. She began to push back, not with aggression, but with an unwavering insistence on her own humanity. She spoke to the staff, learning their names and asking about their families, much to their initial shock. She insisted on cooking her own breakfast, a small act of normalcy in a profoundly abnormal world. Aleksandr would watch these small rebellions from a distance, his expression a mask of stony neutrality, but his piercing blue eye missed nothing. He seemed both irritated and fascinated by her refusal to be cowed. She wasn't afraid of his power; she was challenging the isolation it had built around him.
The true turning point came one afternoon when she discovered his studio. It was a locked room she had been subtly warned away from, which only fueled her curiosity. Picking the old lock with a hairpin—a skill learned from a misspent youth she rarely thought about—she slipped inside. The room was a stark contrast to the rest of the cold, perfect mansion. It was a space of controlled chaos. Canvases were everywhere, some stacked against the walls, others on easels. And they were all filled with darkness and pain. Twisted shapes, violent slashes of black and red, abstract expressions of a soul in torment. This was where the beast roared. But in the corner, covered by a sheet, was something different. She lifted the cloth and gasped. It was a sculpture, a breathtakingly beautiful piece carved from a gnarled piece of wood. It depicted a single, perfect rose, its petals delicate and lifelike, emerging from a tangled mass of thorns and broken branches. It was a masterpiece of hope born from wreckage. It was him.
The sound of the door opening made her jump. Aleksandr stood there, his body rigid with fury. For the first time, she saw the true, unrestrained rage of the Bratva leader. “Get out,” he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. His scarred face was a thundercloud of emotion. This was his sanctuary, his secret wound, and she had trespassed. But looking at the sculpture, Madison found a new source of courage. She didn't run. She stood her ground, her gaze fixed on his. “This is beautiful,” she said softly, her voice cutting through his anger. “The rest… the rest is your pain. But this… this is your soul.”
His rage faltered, replaced by a raw, staggering vulnerability. No one had ever seen this part of him. No one had dared. He had built his empire on a foundation of fear, using his scars and his reputation as a shield to keep the world at bay. He believed himself to be a monster, and he painted his monstrosity onto canvases to exorcise the demons. But Madison hadn't seen a monster. She had looked into the heart of his private hell and found the single, resilient flower growing there. The confrontation changed everything. The unspoken tension between them began to transform into a fragile, tentative intimacy. He started to talk to her, not about his violent business, but about Russia, about the art he loved, about the silence of the snow in his homeland. He would find her in the library and simply sit with her, the two of them reading in a shared, comfortable silence that was more profound than any conversation. She learned that his scars were from a fire set by a rival family, a fire that had claimed his parents and his younger sister. He had been the only survivor, emerging from the flames as a boy and remade into a vengeful, broken man. She began to tend to him, not just his physical needs, but the deeper wounds he carried. She would trace the edges of the scars on his face with a gentle finger, not with pity, but with a quiet acceptance that seemed to soothe the restless beast inside him. In the heart of the lion's den, Madison was no longer the prey. She was becoming something else entirely: the lion's keeper.
Chapter 4: When The Past Comes Calling
The gilded peace of Aleksandr’s mansion was a fragile bubble, and Madison knew it was only a matter of time before the outside world tried to burst it. The past never stays buried; it only waits for an opportunity to claw its way back to the surface. For Madison, the past had a name and a face: Trent. The thought of him still sent a chill of visceral fear through her, a phantom echo of his hot breath and the cold weight of his hand. Aleksandr had promised her safety, and for a while, she had almost believed it was absolute. She had found a strange rhythm in her life with the scarred Pakhan, a delicate dance of trust and vulnerability that was slowly healing parts of her she thought were broken forever. But the news, when it came, was a brutal reminder that monsters come in many forms, and not all of them rule the criminal underworld.
It was one of Aleksandr’s men, Dimitri, a stoic giant who was his second-in-command, who delivered the information. He approached Aleksandr in his study while Madison was there, reading by the fire. Dimitri spoke in low, rapid Russian, but Madison didn't need a translation. The immediate, lethal stillness that fell over Aleksandr was terrifying to behold. The warmth in the room seemed to freeze. The man who had begun to show her glimpses of a gentle, wounded soul was gone, replaced in an instant by the cold, merciless predator who ruled the city’s shadows. His blue eye became a shard of ice, and his scarred face settled into a mask of controlled, deadly fury. He turned to her, his voice deceptively calm. “Madison. Tell me everything about Trent.”
Her blood ran cold. He was here. In the city. The rat had followed her scent. Shaking, she recounted the story she had tried so hard to forget—the charming man who had turned into a possessive monster, the escalating control, the verbal abuse that had bled into physical violence, her desperate escape in the middle of the night with nothing but a few dollars and the clothes on her back. She spoke of his connection to a low-level local gang, how he’d always bragged about his supposed influence. As she spoke, Aleksandr listened without interruption, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his desk. Each word she uttered seemed to fuel the arctic fire in his eyes. He wasn't just hearing her story; he was absorbing her pain and her fear, transmuting them into a singular, focused rage. When she finished, the silence in the room was heavy and absolute. He looked not at her, but at Dimitri. “Find him,” he commanded, the two words carrying the weight of a death sentence. “Bring him to me. Unharmed. I want to look him in the eye.”
The hunt was swift and brutally efficient. The Volkov Bratva, a sleeping dragon, had been roused. Its tendrils reached into every dark corner of the city, and within a day, Trent was found. The news threw Madison into a turmoil of conflicting emotions. A part of her was relieved, a deep, shuddering release of a tension she had carried for years. But another part was terrified—not of Trent, but for him. She had seen Aleksandr's capacity for gentleness, but she had also seen the cold, hard steel beneath. She knew what he was capable of, and she knew this confrontation would be bathed in a violence she couldn't comprehend. She feared what seeing that would do to the fragile bond between them, and what it would do to the man she was beginning to care for so deeply.
She found Aleksandr in his study later that night, staring out at the city lights. “Don’t do this, Sasha,” she pleaded, using his familiar name for the first time. “Don’t become the monster he always thought he was, just for me.” He turned to face her, and the look on his face was one of profound, agonizing conflict. “He put his hands on you,” he said, his voice a raw whisper. “He made you feel fear. In my world, Madison, there is no forgiveness for that. This is not for you to witness. But it is something that must be done. There is a price for touching what is mine.” His words, possessive and brutal, should have frightened her. But woven into them was a fierce, unwavering protectiveness that resonated with a part of her she didn't know existed. He was claiming her, not as property, but as a part of his own soul that he would defend to the death. The past had come calling, knocking at the door of their sanctuary. But it was not Madison who would have to face it. The Beast was standing guard, and he was about to show a pathetic, cruel man what a true monster looked like.
Chapter 5: A War for Her Soul
The air in the mansion grew thick with anticipation, a heavy, charged silence that precedes a storm. Trent had been brought to a secure warehouse owned by the Bratva, and Aleksandr was preparing to meet him. He forbade Madison from leaving the house, an order backed by the silent, unyielding presence of two guards posted outside her suite. He intended to shield her from the brutality he was about to unleash, to preserve the image of the man he was trying to become for her. But Madison understood something he didn't: hiding the darkness wouldn't make it disappear. Their nascent love, if it was to be real, had to be strong enough to withstand the whole truth of who he was, not just the curated parts he allowed her to see. She couldn’t let him fight this battle for her soul without being there. She had to face her past, and he had to know that she could see his true nature and not turn away.
With a desperate plea and a conviction that surprised even herself, she convinced Dimitri to take her to the warehouse. He was hesitant, torn between his loyalty to his Pakhan and the undeniable strength in Madison’s eyes. He finally relented, understanding on some level that this was a crucible for them both. The drive through the industrial district was a journey into the city’s underbelly, a world of rust and shadows that was Aleksandr’s natural habitat. The warehouse was vast and cold, smelling of oil and fear. In the center of the cavernous space, bathed in the stark light of a single overhead bulb, Trent was tied to a chair. He looked smaller, more pathetic than she remembered, his usual arrogant smirk replaced by a mask of sheer terror. Aleksandr stood before him, a figure of calm, collected menace. He was not shouting, not pacing. He was simply watching Trent, his stillness more terrifying than any overt act of violence.
“You touched her,” Aleksandr’s voice echoed in the silence, a low rumble that was barely audible yet filled the entire space. “You made her run. You made her afraid. You left your filth on something pure.” Trent, seeing Madison enter with Dimitri, found a sudden, foolish burst of bravado. “Maddy! Baby, tell this freak to let me go! You belong with me, not with this… this monster!” The word ‘monster’ hung in the air. Aleksandr’s head tilted slightly, a slow, predatory movement. He looked from Trent’s sneering face to Madison’s, his one good eye searching for her reaction. He expected to see fear, revulsion, a final confirmation that he was, and always would be, the beast he saw in the mirror. But Madison’s gaze was fixed on him, and in her eyes, he saw not fear, but unwavering strength and a deep, sorrowful understanding. She was not afraid of him. She was afraid for him.
That look broke something inside Aleksandr. It was a permission he never thought he’d receive, an acceptance of the darkness he wielded. The war he was about to wage was not just against Trent; it was against every man who had ever hurt her, every shadow that had ever made her flinch. It was a brutal, visceral explosion of controlled violence. He moved with a speed and precision that was horrifyingly graceful. It was not a chaotic beating; it was a systematic dismantling of a man, piece by piece. He broke Trent’s hands, the same hands that had been raised against Madison. He shattered his arrogance, his cruelty, his very sense of self, all without ever losing the chilling calm that defined him. Madison watched, her stomach churning, her heart pounding in her chest. It was the most horrific thing she had ever witnessed. It was raw, untamed, and savage. Yet, through the horror, she saw the truth. This violence wasn't born of malice or pleasure; it was born of a ferocious, desperate love. It was the only way this broken, brutal man knew how to protect, how to cherish, how to say "I love you." He was a dragon, and he was burning the world down to keep her safe.
When it was over, Trent was a sobbing, broken wreck on the floor. Aleksandr stood over him, breathing heavily, his knuckles bleeding. He slowly turned to face Madison, his chest rising and falling, his face a mask of anguish. The beast had been fully unleashed, and he was certain that she would now see him for what he was and flee. He looked utterly lost, like a man who had just destroyed the one beautiful thing in his life to save it. But Madison didn't run. She walked toward him, her footsteps echoing in the vast, silent warehouse. She walked past the broken man on the floor, past the watchful eyes of Dimitri and the other guards. She walked right up to Aleksandr, who stood frozen, awaiting his judgment. She gently took his bloodied, trembling hand in hers. She raised it to her lips and kissed his knuckles, a gesture of profound and absolute acceptance. “Come home, Sasha,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “It’s over. Let’s go home.” In the cold, violent heart of his kingdom, surrounded by the evidence of his brutality, the war for her soul was won. And she had chosen the monster.
Chapter 6: Where Scars Become Art
The aftermath of the confrontation was a profound and unnerving silence. The journey back to the mansion was a passage through a world that seemed muted and distant. The violent echoes of the warehouse faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the car and the heavy weight of unspoken thoughts. Aleksandr sat beside her, a monolith of contained torment. He did not touch her. He did not look at her. He seemed to be receding into himself, retreating behind the fortress of his scars, convinced he had irrevocably shattered the fragile world they had built. He had shown her the unadulterated monster, the savage beast he kept chained in the dungeons of his soul, and he was waiting for the inevitable recoil, for the revulsion to finally dawn in her eyes.
When they arrived back at the house, he walked straight to his study, the one place he had always gone to isolate himself. But this time, Madison followed. She found him standing before the large window, his back to her, his broad shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat. The city lights cast his powerful frame in silhouette, a lonely king surveying a kingdom he believed he was unfit to rule. “I am what you saw back there, Madison,” he said, his voice raw and hollow. “That is the truth of me. A killer. A beast. I destroy everything I touch.” He was offering her an escape, a final chance to walk away before his darkness consumed her completely. He was pushing her away with the very truth she had demanded to see, a self-sabotage born of a deep-seated belief that he was unworthy of her light.
Madison closed the distance between them, her presence a soft counterpoint to his rigid pain. She came to stand beside him, her reflection appearing next to his in the dark glass. She looked at the two figures: the woman who had run from a common bully, and the man who commanded an army of shadows. On the surface, they were from different universes, but in the reflection, she saw only two survivors, two souls marked by the world in different ways. “I know what you are, Sasha,” she said softly, her voice resonating with a certainty that made him turn his head. “I have always known. I saw it in the diner that first night. But I saw other things, too.” She reached up, her fingers gently tracing the jagged, silvered lines on his face. He flinched, but did not pull away. Her touch was not one of pity, but of reverence. “These are not just scars of a monster,” she continued, her eyes holding his. “They are the marks of a boy who survived a fire that should have killed him. They are the story of a man who built an empire from the ashes to protect himself from ever being hurt like that again. I saw the violence tonight, yes. But it was the violence of a shield, not a sword. You were protecting me. You were protecting us.”
Her words were a balm on a wound he had carried for a lifetime. He had always seen his scars as a mark of ugliness, a physical manifestation of the monster within. He saw them as the reason he had to be alone, the reason he was unlovable. But Madison was reframing his entire existence. She was taking the pieces of his broken past and holding them up to the light, showing him that they were not just shards of a shattered life, but the facets of a complex and beautiful mosaic. She saw his pain, his rage, his brutality, and his gentleness not as contradictions, but as integrated parts of a whole man. A man she loved. “You see the sculpture in the thorns,” he whispered, a look of dawning wonder on his face, recalling her words from his studio. “Yes,” she replied, her hand moving from his cheek to cup the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “Because the thorns are part of the story. They make the rose what it is.”
In that moment, the final wall around Aleksandr’s heart crumbled into dust. He swept her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, and for the first time since he was a boy, he allowed himself to be truly vulnerable. The beast finally surrendered to his beauty. Their love, forged in the unlikely space between a greasy-spoon diner and a criminal empire, was not a fairy tale of transformation where the beast becomes a prince. It was a more profound, more honest story of acceptance. Madison did not tame the beast; she loved him, in his entirety, and in doing so, she gave him a home for his wild, tormented heart. And Aleksandr, the feared Pakhan, the scarred monster, found that the reflection in the mirror was no longer a thing to be hated. It was simply the face of a man who was, against all odds, unconditionally loved. The scars remained, etched into his skin like a map of his journey. But they were no longer a symbol of what he had lost. They were a testament to his survival, and under her gaze, under her touch, they had finally become a work of art.