Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

My instincts were sharp, honed by years of meticulous observation, and something about these crates felt… off. Something caught my attention—a series of faint scratches near the crate’s edges. To anyone else, it might have looked like random wear and tear, but the positioning was too deliberate, the spacing too precise. “Look at this,” I called Alpha Boris over. “These markings—they’re intentional.” Alpha Boris crouched beside me, brushing his fingers over the subtle grooves. “Codes?” he speculated. “Could be,” I murmured. “It’s a perfect method. Someone marking certain crates for a pickup. The enemy could have someone inside our supply chain marking these for collection.”

A discarded waterskin, the leather still supple and new. I knelt by the fire pit, my fingers tracing the faint but distinct markings that had been carved into the stone floor. They were not random scratches, but deliberate, intentional symbols, a coded language that was as familiar to me as my own name. It was a tracking system, a series of runes and sigils used by scouts and hunters to mark their progress and leave messages for those who followed.

They were too controlled. Too deliberate. Scarlett walked closer. The bark had been sliced three times. Parallel lines. Almost identical in length. Lucas frowned. "That wasn't an attack." Ethan nodded. "It was a message." Scarlett tilted her head. "A message?" The scout traced the marks lightly with his fingers. "Black Fang scouts use claw markings when they can't leave written instructions." The Black Fang Alpha stepped beside him. His eyes moved over the tree only once before understanding settled across his face.

But this symbol has an extra line through the crow’s eye, a detail she never added, a detail that makes the mark look like a warning rather than a badge of power. A desk sits in the shadowed corner of the room, cluttered with papers, inkwells, quills, and a small wax seal press made of heavy iron. She runs her finger over the wood and feels scratches carved into the surface — letters and words repeated over and over until they blur together into a single line of pain. “I didn’t ask for this.” “She doesn’t understand.” “The story has to end.” The scratches are deep enough to catch her nail, and when she presses her finger into one, she feels splinters of wood under her skin. Next to the scrat

But she is the Luna to a werewolf pack and no one seemed bothered by the fact that their Luna could not shift. "We don't have time for this" Clyde intervened, "Nyx, if you would please" He added in a calm tone, pulling out a piece of white chalk from his pocket and stretching it towards me. "Of course" I accepted it and cast the rebels one last glance before drawing marks that looked exactly like the one in school on the door. Everywhere became drop-dead silent as the rebels watched me make those marks in awe. I finished the markings and returned the chalk to Clyde whose eyes were stuck to the door in astonishment.

I sit on the leather chair infront of his desk. He rubbed his temples."But that can't be. You just entered into a partnership with him. He was the one who really needed it so why ruffle your feather's?" I pinch the bridge of my nose."Please don't say 'ruffle my feather's ever again.' anyway,I thought it was his men." "Did you check the mark?" I nod."They were almost the same." "What do you mean almost?" He places both hands on the table and clasps them. "Ricardo's mark usually have three dots. The last one can be easily missed if you don't pay attention."

The scent of roses mingles with the warm candlelight, setting the perfect scene for the night I have planned. "We’re going to relax together, just as we promised," I say gently. "We both need this." I begin lifting his shirt, but he takes over, peeling it away himself. My eyes trace over his body, drinking in the intricate ink that adorns his skin—the ancient markings of the first Alphas, lunar phases, constellations with their own stories, and scars, both old and new. One in particular catches my attention—the deep scratch running from his shoulder to his lower back, a reminder of Kane’s first attack on us. Yet, there are many others, older ones I’ve never asked about.

I can’t help but ask, as the marks that seemed to be welted on her skin were so visible, and too severe to be ignored. Scar turned to look down at her body before looking right back at me. “Maybe you should worry about yours first,” she says, her hand motioning towards my body. My brows creased tighter. What was she talking about? I thought when I drop my gaze down my stomach and thighs, I let out a gasp. Shocked, I couldn’t move or say anything until Scar broke her silence. “Those are infidelity marks,” she says, and I look up, blinking at her. “They occur when your mate is being unfaithful. More will appear in the future,”

"Like a dream." His hand slides lower, pressing me into him, molding me against him like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. My gaze drifts over his body, taking in several angry red marks. A scar I don’t recognize mars the sharp line of his jaw, trailing down his neck. My fingers trace over it, my brow furrowing. When did he get these? I want to erase them, to soothe away whatever pain left them behind, just as he has always done for me.

“I was trying to move a heavy cupboard, and my bracelet got stuck behind it. It scratched me when I tried to pull it out.” I lifted my eyes from her wrist, meeting her gaze. She was not making eye contact, her eyes darting everywhere but at me. Her heartbeat was fast . The marks were not consistent with her explanation. If it were from a piece of furniture, the scratches should be spread across her wrist, not pressed into the flesh like someone had grabbed her. “It is late, I should go to bed,” she said abruptly, yanking her hand from mine and making a beeline for the stairs.