Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

Done with the quick shower, I take my bath towel and start swiping my body. My face. Hair. Neck… I pause. The small almost excusable mark on my neck makes me look twice. Thanks to my pale white skin, I can easily pick it up. And it's like a bite… A mark? Quite anxious, I push closer, one hand pulling down the skin beneath the scar. It's not a shape, just two red scars like bite marks… like sharp canines sinking down my skin. The tiny inscribed letter ‘D’ is too clean to be missed.

Look what that bastard did to me’ I was going to ignore the text, but the attached image drew me in. My thumb hovered over the picture, trembling, before I clicked on it. And I froze. Jasper's wrist, where the stranger grabbed earlier, had deep scratch marks. The kind of mark you wouldn't get from just being grabbed by a random person. I told myself that I was just overthinking it, but I knew what I saw. The mark looked like they were gotten from claws… too deep and precise.

“His… his body was maimed. Torn apart. There were claw marks, deep ones, and his… his throat was slashed. A symbol was carved into his chest. Malrik’s mark.” The room fell deathly silent. The scout’s voice trembled as he continued. “It was unmistakable—a wolf’s paw, but twisted. The claws extended unnaturally long, curling into jagged edges like talons. The center of the paw held a crescent moon encased in flames, the lines precise and deliberate. Blood was smeared over the carving, making it all the more grotesque.” Gasps and murmurs erupted, but Zeke silenced them with a sharp look. “He’s marking his territory,” Zeke growled. “He wants us to know this was no random attack. This was persona

Pack history curated into something that could pass for a family story if you didn’t notice how many faces were missing. But what grabbed me wasn’t the photos. It was the marks. Once I knew to look, I couldn’t stop seeing them. A crescent crossed by three slashes—inked behind an ear, at the base of a throat, along a wrist where a watch could hide it. Some were bold, fresh lines. Others were faint and old, like they’d been done decades ago and faded into the skin. I stopped walking. Mason’s hand snapped out and caught my elbow. “Move.”

"Kar... what are these?" There were marks all over my thighs. Cut marks. Some were old, some were healing, and some were fresh. "Nothing, I just scratched myself," I muttered quickly, too quickly. "These don’t look like nothing," his tone was stern. "How long have you been doing this?" "They're nothing, really," "Kara," "Cole, it's fine. It's just a little scratch," I said again, but he didn't believe me even for a bit. "Since when?" he said again.

Scar is seated on the bed operating a laptop,she looked up to the man beside her tall and well built,his eyes deep like eyes that held many secrets and knows maybe too much. “Marcus,that works well in our favor, you'll upload the video,my health report,the scan results and everything related to my failing health on my official page when I step out,let's use their delusion against them” She scoffed reading comments under a post bashing her. “Karma,they say karma caught me,that bitch karma is scared of me” He slowly unbottoned his shirt revealing a tattoo covering his chest and stomach,an eagle holding a snake with it's claws,he got into the bathtub slowly.

“Reagan can be a dick. Yes, most people who work closely with us know of our bonds. You’ll understand more when you meet my parents.” “I hope they don’t think I am as stupid as I feel.” I replied too honestly. “You are not stupid Miss. We keep these secrets for reasons.” Reagan replied gently with half a smile. “I appreciate that.” 7 Days later… I paced around the living room of my little guest house I called home. I glanced down at my watch before staring at the tattoo drawn around my wrist. Twisting my arm around looking at the beautiful artwork. A dragon’s tail, around an inch in width, wrapped around my wrist. The red scales unlike anything I had seen before, hints of gold looked as if t

The thing was older than the men who handled it, and with careful, practiced hands, gentle because it needed to look ordinary but we peeled back the covers. Pages spilled out like a confession. Account codes, spice consignments, odd little annotations. I saw a neat scratched line where a name had been scrubbed. The ink around it was faint, as if someone had tried to dig a hole where a name might have been. There were marks, merchant’s marks, used to signal payment under the table. A cross here, a tiny dot there. A cipher stitched into an ordinary ledger. “Copy everything,” I ordered quietly. “Move paper by paper. We’re not burning this yet. We need the scratch marks<