Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

That's when I saw it. The mark on his shoulder blade. Four parallel lines. Deep. Fresh. "What's that?" I asked. "What?" I grabbed his arm. Turned him. "This. On your back." "It's nothing." "That's not nothing." I traced the scars. "Those are claw marks." "Training accident." "Those aren't normal wolf scratches." I pulled him back to the bed. Made him sit. "I know what wolf claws look like. Those are different. Bigger."

“Look here.” Arianne went forward and saw some scratch marks beneath the rock, which seemed to have been forcefully carved with something hard. There were also traces of blood on it, and the markings weren’t clear or regular. Coupled with the fact that Arianne was not a forensics personnel, she did not find the markings strange. “What about it?” Geralt extended his fingers and seemed to connect the markings with his finger. “Take a closer look. Wouldn’t these scratch marks become a certain word? After our investigation ended, I kept thinking that there was something weird with the crime scene, so I came back alone and found this

Because there on the wide expanse of his back, multiple angry red scratches were drawn long and harsh. A part of me felt guilty, knowing how they must be stinging. But then there was also a sizable part of me that just couldn’t help but preen in satisfaction at the mere image of Gallahan being thoroughly marked as mine. Because not only did I leave nail marks on him, there were also other pieces of evidence on how we were so lost to each other for hours. From the teeth marks on his shoulder, up until the multiple hickies, which ranged from light pink to dark purple, scattered all over the patches of skin my mouth could reach while he was driving into me and leading me to the highest of heave

Zach’s sketching something on a napkin with a half-dead pen, his sleeves pushed up just enough for the edge of one tattoo to peek through. It’s an angular design, geometric and sharp. I’ve stared at it more than once, wondering what it means. All of his ink looks deliberate. Scar-like. Every line says: I earned this. There’s another on his left hand, just beneath the knuckle, three dots. I don’t know what they stand for, and I haven’t asked. But sometimes, when he’s staring out the window, he rubs at it like he can’t forget what it cost him.

'It looks like regualar claw marks. The gang has stepped closer to the windows to also catch a glimpse of what she is talking about, River hits the speaker box button so they can all hear us. "Look see here," She points to the marks. "These marks were done in threes. Have you ever attacked someone with your claws, and it only be done in threes?" She asks me. I shake my head no, to give her an anwser. "Also, look at how neat they are? And they are approximately three inches apart!" She states. We hear Lauren's voice through the intercome system.

or something like that. Then there's The Marking. Not like biting or stuff like that. This one is for the entire pack. Special paint made by witches, from moon dust, sun dust, first snow water, dew drops and white roses. Weird, right? Anyway, this one is mostly like drawing tattoos, but with the feather from a white owl.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he holds the letter up, putting it close to the bones, then pulling it away again. “Take a look at this,” he says. I squat down beside him. “See those marks in the rib bones.” “Yes,” I say. He takes the paper and turns it until I can see what he’s showing me. The marks are the same width apart, and there are scratches on the several ribs where Althea’s claws scraped across Derrick’s ribs when she stabbed him.

The bond can’t kill me, but Marcus is doing his best to make it try. I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on a scuff mark on the far wall. I’ve stared at that same mark through so many of his “shows” that I could trace it with my eyes closed, a jagged crescent, probably from a claw. I’d rather burn it into my memory than commit the shape of their bodies to it.

We stopped instantly. “What is it?” I asked. He pointed ahead. There were faint marks carved into the bark of a tree. Three deep slashes. Marcus snarled as I scanned them. It was clearly another message. I stepped closer. The wood had been torn by claws — fresh. “Rogue marking,” Ronan said. “But look closer.” I did. The pattern wasn’t random. It was three slashes with a line beneath them. Then another. My stomach twisted. “This isn’t a warning,” I muttered.

Broken tools lie scattered near one wall; rusted picks, a bent shovel, a lantern with shattered glass. I trail my fingers along the stone as I walk, grounding myself with the cool, rough texture. My senses feel sharper here. Not frantic like how it usually is around people. I'm more focused. That’s when I see it. The markings. At first I think they’re just cracks in the rock, natural fractures in stone worn by time. But then the light catches them just right, and I stop short. Lines. Too precise to be nature's doing. I step closer, my heart beginning to pound. My fingers hover, then trace the groove carefully. The marking is shallow but done with an intention, etched rather than broken in by