Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

Camilla frowned, inspecting Scarlett from head to toe, making her confused and cringy with every single word! 'What the hell she is trying to do!?' Scar thought and the motive was clear to her, when the next second she just said, "Oh! What are these marks on your neck, Scarlett? They..." She paused for a second as if she was trying to figure it out. "Oh, they look like hickeys! Recent one!" Scarlett gasped and looked down at her. 'Shit!' She cursed inaudibly. She just hide those hickeys with makeup but the bloody makeup just decided to betray her the moment she needed them! Now the hickeys were very much visible.

I don't answer. My room is exactly how I left it. Unmade bed. Half-empty coffee cup. Sketchbook open to a half-finished drawing of a wolf I don't remember drawing. I slam the door shut and press my back against it, sliding to the floor. My hands shake as I roll up my sleeve. The mark is still there. And for the first time, in the dim light, I realize It looks like a bite.

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.

The staircase led toward the blind doors, the wall marked with my own handwriting: “Nothing happens. Proceed.” I ran a finger along the words. The chalk was dry, the surface clean. Two steps higher, on the corner, a tiny, nearly invisible scratch in the stone: two short lines, pause, five quick, then two short again. Five and two — centered. Not human-carved; more like the tip of a claw or sharp shard. Not deep, not menacing. A sign. “You see it?” Aedan asked. “I see.” I held the chalk in my palm. “I won’t erase it.” Above the scratch, with small, unobtrusive motions, I wrote: “noted.”

Please. *Answer me.* The Scorchmark *cracked.* Not breaking. *Opening.* A seam appeared in the black glass. Widening. And from within— *Light.* Not silver. Not red. *Both.* Intertwined. Spiraling. *Beautiful.* The light surged upward. Coalesced. And when it faded— A blade remained. Hovering above the crack. Waiting. It was *magnificent.* The metal was dark—almost black—but traced with veins of silver and crimson that pulsed like a heartbeat.

I turned it, and there was a gentle click. I pulled, and nothing happened. I pulled harder, and I could hear the cracking paint. The hinges had been completely painted over. I reached up and pulled harder, and scraped away at the paint. I got my fingers in enough to grab a hold of the door, and yanked hard. I could begin to see the outline of a tall, thin, narrow compartment. I yanked again. And it opened. Old air, stuck for centuries, came out at me, along with a cloud of dust.