Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

That was when I noticed it. Something was different. My eyes narrowed. At first, I thought it was a crack in the stone. A tiny imperfection near the edge of the window frame. But the longer I stared, the more certain I became. It wasn't a crack. It was a mark. I stepped closer. My pulse instantly quickened. Three scratches. Three deliberate scratches carved into the stone. Faint. Almost invisible. The kind of thing anyone else would overlook. But not me.

Calantha worried, she said "Then I just leave it like this, don’t I?" Mary comforted, “Don't worry. Wait for another month and the signs will disappear completely. S-rank alphas can store temporary marks for up to a month, but low-grade alphas' marks only last for a maximum of half a month. I don't know if it's lucky or unlucky. And if you want to cover it, it's simple. In this era, science and technology have advanced. You just need to stick the patch, spray the antiperspirant on the Pheromones, then put on your incense bag and then you can go to work as usual. And be careful , okay."

I guess that’s why I have my scar, a reminder of the fact that I’ll never be as strong as I need to be. As strong as I want to be. Maybe I deserve the scar…. I-i know I deserve my scar it’s all my fault. I… I need to search the body. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, collected the supplies and got to my feet, stumbling backwards as my backpack settled on my shoulders.

The door shuts, muting out Ahren’s voice. Mama looks at me. “What happened, Kat? You look pale.” “The darkness is within him still.” “How do you-” Mama begins. “A scratch I made hasn’t healed…” I murmur. “As we feared.” Raihana sighs. “So, the marking didn’t completely dispel it,” Royce muses. “Are we all not going to ask how that scratch was made?” Skyla adds slyly. “I mean, we all knew you two were in the shower…”

Slowly like an animal approaching a snare. The dirt on the ground resisted my touch as I crouched, my fingertips brushing away the years of dust that clung stubbornly to the metal’s surface. The markings underneath were unlike anything I had seen. They weren’t the crisp, symmetrical patterns of pack insignias, nor the soft curling strokes of the Luna’s blessings. No, these were jagged and deliberate, sharp in their symmetry yet strange in their beauty, as if constellations had been branded into the metal by fire older than the moon itself. The whisper deepened, pressing against my mind like a tide that wanted to drag me under. My heart pounded hard enough that I could feel it in my throat.

I pull away. Near it, a scrap of charcoal still clings to a slat of wood nailed to the post. A drawing, childlike, almost faded into nothing. A wolf. A handprint. A name that’s been rubbed away until it’s just scratches. And beside it—marks. Six. Maybe seven. Gouged in hard enough to split the grain. A tally of something. Time. Deaths. Fails. The taste of the Pit creeps back into my mouth. Rust. Burned bone. That strange ozone tang of magic that doesn’t belong. My stomach turns, but I don’t let it win. My fingers curl against the stone.

“What?” Cass pointed to the base of a nearby tree. There, half-buried in the dirt, was a streak of something dark and drying. Blood. Next to it marks. Deep ones. Scratches carved into the bark like someone, or something, had been angry. Aiden’s breath came out in a puff. “That’s not… normal.” Cass was quiet. For once, the grin was gone. He crouched, reached out like he might touch the bark, then froze.

Sitting up, he leaned closer, narrowing the space between us, stirring up that confusing mix of nerves and excitement all over again. “You know what?” I snapped, finally meeting his eyes. My gaze caught on the deep pink scratch marks on his shoulders, five perfect imprints on each. Pride sparked through me like I’d left a claim. Longer scratches ran from his shoulders down to his chest, and I blinked, wondering how I hadn’t noticed them earlier. He followed my line of sight, saw the marks, and smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “You marked me.” His tone dripped with smug satisfaction.

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.