Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

On the contrary, it might have made me trust him a little more. Dr. Frankler nodded and turned back to Maverick. She pulled down the neck of her shirt, stretching the knit material over her shoulder and exposing a section of her back. A series of odd scars swirled along her shoulder blade in various shades that were darker than her skin color. They made me think of flames. "Maverick, what does this tell you?" she asked. Maverick's eyes widened. "No way! Is that ...?" "Of course, it is," she said. "Do you know anyone else with this mark?"

"The rejection mark. Marcus burned it into me because my body was fighting the sequence. It's proof I'm a failure." "Look at it." The Template’s voice was fading. "Look at the mark, boy. Really look at it." I ripped my shirt open. The jagged 'R' on my chest was still red, still angry. But under the harsh fluorescent light of the lab, I saw it. The scar tissue wasn't just a burn. It was a pattern. Small, raised dots that followed the curve of the letter.

He sounded pleased. "No, you don't understand," I slid off the table, my legs shaky. "Turn around." He did, and I could see the deep red lines I had carved into his skin. Some of them were bleeding slightly. "Can't have anyone seeing these," I murmured, reaching for clean cloth and water. "They'll ask questions." "Let them ask." "Mikhail," I dampened the cloth and began carefully cleaning the scratches. "Be serious." "Fine," But he was watching me over his shoulder, his eyes dark. "Though I like wearing your marks."

The dizziness eased slightly. I turned my gaze to the final scratch card once more. I made up my mind. My hand trembling, I began to scratch.

Something dangerous was at play here. I was still searching for clues, looking through the debris and scattering the whole place. However, I noticed something strange. I saw cake marks on the walls, deep and rugged scratches that seemed unnatural. They appeared almost everywhere, not just in one spot. I examined the marks closely, looking more perplexed than ever. Looking at it carefully, they seemed like scratches of a wolf, but the strength of the claws that dug into these walls seemed stronger and deeper than what an ordinary wolf could do.

Jace says it’s been quiet, but quiet never lasts long in rogue territory. I like the rhythm of it. Scanning trees for broken branches, sniffing for foreign scents, marking our own posts with quick scratches. It’s simple. Physical. No room for overthinking. Until there is. Jace stops abruptly near a cluster of pines. He crouches, fingers brushing the bark. “Fresh,” he mutters. I move closer. There it is: a deliberate claw mark, three parallel lines, shallow but precise. Not deep enough to scar the tree forever, just enough to say *we were here*.

Lillianna cried out unable to help herself. He just imprinted his initials onto her body… He pressed it so hard holding her arm hard so she could not go anywhere. He kept it pressed for a few minutes before he pulled it off her. She was in tears. AJ assessed the result before he turned her around roughly and showed the mark to Tristan. “What does that say?” He asked. “It says AJ… AJ… She is now marked. I have branded her as my own. Is that enough for you to understand that she belongs to me!”

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.

I stepped closer, kneeling to inspect them. Dust clung to the surface in a thick, undisturbed blanket, covering the details beneath it. But as I leaned closer, I could see faint indentations breaking through the grime—etched lines just waiting to be seen I wiped my hand across it. The dust scattered like ash in the wind, revealing strange, ancient markings beneath. Symbols emerged—sharp.

The unmistakable scratch marks that looked like they were left by a lover. Passionate scratch marks. My breath hitched in my throat. It was the kind that was left in the heat of intimacy. Fingernails dragging down a lover’s back in an amorous situation. The kind that a receiving partner left when they had no other way to hold themselves together. In theory, my sister was already gone, and whatever he does with anyone else should be of no concern to me. Yet, inexplicably, my heart aches with a sharp, bitter pang.