Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

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

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,”

As the afternoon light filters in, I finally manage to rise, my body aching as if it’s been hit by a train. I groan, rolling over to find myself face to face with Braden’s side, his ribs rising and falling with each breath, and my eyes drift to his birthmark. It an unusal mark and I have never seen it at this angle before. Up close, it looks more like… teeth marks. The color is darker red nearly purple, almost angry, and the outline is distinct, as if something once sank into his skin and left a permanent reminder. My finger traces it lightly, feeling a subtle indentation, and I swear it matches the shape of a bite.

Jay said, stroking the edge in embarrassment. Jay was silent, repeating the slow, careful stroke. The iron's texture felt rough due to scratches from a sharp object. Jay leaned over the edge, studying the outside of the metal. "Why? I found something?" James asked, imitating his best friend's movements. " Oh, so it's like this..." "You found it?" James was stunned for a moment. The scratches were printed on Jay's part and along the metal. "It looks like a hook mark," said James. Jay raised his head. "We're going up!"

Raven and the others approached him. In front of them, the wet ground looked messy, as if something had been dragged over it. Long scratch marks were visible on a nearby tree trunk, as if something was trying to climb up frantically. Lucas gulped. "Okay. This is definitely not the work of an ordinary animal." Raven crouched down, touching the scratch marks carefully. There was something strange. The scar on the tree looked black, like it was burnt, and when she touched it- Shit!

I stepped up to the glass, leaned my palms against the porcelain sink, and turned my head to look over my shoulder. Deep, red claw marks ran down both sides of my back. Four jagged lines on the left, four on the right, starting high on my shoulder blades and cutting straight down to my ribs where her nails had dug in like she'd been biting back a sound. The scratches were swollen, bright red, and still oozing tiny drops of clear fluid against my tanned skin. A sharp burn shot down my spine when I flexed my shoulders, but instead of making me flinch, my stomach pulled tight.

Not a trick. A possibility. She reached the armory wing without knowing why. Her fingers trailed along the pressure lock, brushing old indentations on the wall ones Lucien had told her were “cosmetic glitches.” Scratches. Scrapes. No one scratches a wall that clean from the inside. Her breath caught. She turned and stared at the surface now illuminated by a thin line of light from the motion sensor. Tally marks. Small. Precise. Countless. A pattern someone like her would carve if they were trying not to lose track of days.

Whole sections of the wall were covered in them, layers upon layers, until it looked as though the stone itself bled with her frenzy. Some scratches stood alone, straight as tally marks. Others looped into crooked circles, spirals, or childlike patterns that ended abruptly, as if she had forgotten what she meant halfway through. In one corner she carved the outline of a cradle over and over again, each smaller than the last, until the last one was no bigger than a fingernail. She pressed her forehead against those etchings until her skin bruised, whispering, "Hush, sleep, hush."