روايات بقلم Saint

StilesThree days, and neither of us said one word about what happened on that porch step. It might have been the loudest silence I've ever lived inside of.I caught myself watching her mouth when she talked to Wren about nothing in particular. I caught myself remembering, at completely useless moments, hauling water, splitting wood, standing watch at two in the morning, the exact sound she'd made against my throat right before her wolf put her on the ground. I didn't know what to do with any of it, so I did what I always do with things I don't know what to do with. I worked. I watched the tree line. I let Gideon's frost-thaw deadline sit on my chest like a stone and told myself that was the thing keeping me up nights, when both of us knew better.Liora didn't bring it up either. If anything she'd gone quieter around me, not cold exactly, just careful, like when a person gets careful around a wound they aren't ready to look at directly. Once, reaching past me for the kettle, her hand

"Don't stop."He didn't. His hand slid up under the hem of my borrowed shirt, his palm rough and warm against my ribs, and slowly sliding up my breasts… My fingers found his hair, his collar, the laces at his throat, pulling him closer, greedy for more of him. I could feel his cock already getting hard against his pants. And oh how wet I was too. If it weren’t for the cold, I would’ve been wet the very day i laid eyes on him too. He was beautiful! He is beautiful! “Oh, Liora, fuck! You are delivious!” He groaned against my skin when I arched into him. The sound went straight through me."This alright?" he asked, mouth still at my throat, voice wrecked."If you stop asking, it will be."A huff of laughter, breathless, against my collarbone, and then his teeth grazed the same spot, gentle enough to ask, hard enough to make my knees forget their job. I could feel slick pooling down my thighs. I couldn’t help it… Oh goddess I couldn’t My shirt came loose from where I'd tucked it, his

"Do you love him?"Stiles asked it plain, like something he's been sitting on for days and finally can't hold anymore.The question landed somewhere under my ribs and stayed there. Out past the porch rail, the valley lay under a thin coat of new snow, silver-blue and empty, and I found myself grateful for something to look at that wasn't his face while I worked out whether I actually had an answer."I.. I don't know." It was easier to say out loud in the dark, to someone who wasn't asking to hurt me with it. "My wolf, that's not a question. What she feels for him is just there, all the time, like a second heartbeat I never agreed to grow. Whether the rest of me loves him. The part that isn't wolf at all. I haven't had time to find out. Everything's been survival since the day I met him.""That's not really an answer.""I know." I pulled my knees up under Mael's weight, tucking the blanket tighter around him without needing to look. "What about you. You ever love anyone, before all thi

LioraThe candle flame bent sideways.I almost missed it. I was half-watching Mael where he lay on the fur rug, half-listening to Wren narrate an elaborate story about a fox she'd apparently befriended over the summer, and the candle on the shelf behind them guttered like a draft had caught it. Except there was no draft. The shutters were latched. The fire in the hearth burned straight and undisturbed six feet away.The flame bent toward Mael. Held there, a slow curve of gold leaning like a compass needle finding north, for three full seconds, before it snapped back upright like nothing had happened at all. Strange.I told myself it was the fire settling. I told myself the same thing two days later when I found every dead leaf in a wide, unnatural ring around his basket had gone soft and green again, as if autumn had reversed itself in a two-foot circle and nowhere else. I told myself a great many convenient things, that week, because the alternative was sitting with what Maren had s

StilesGideon found me at the wood pile, which meant he'd been watching the cabin long enough to know I'd be there, which meant this conversation had been coming since the morning Liora's fever broke and half of Whitewaters started whispering about the woman with royal blood on her skin.He'd built this valley out of nothing but debts and dead ends fifteen years before I ever found my way here, back when I was still a boy with a Vanguard scar I hadn't earned honestly and nowhere else that would take me. Gideon was pushing sixty now, silver through what was left of his beard, a limp in the left leg that only showed when he was tired, and not one soul in Whitewaters had ever seen him raise his voice. He didn't need to. Men who'd survived what Gideon had survived rarely did."Heard you've got a guest," Gideon said. No greeting. Gideon didn't believe in wasting words on things that weren't information."Heard right." I split another log, mostly so I'd have something to do with my hands t

LioraThree days.That was how long it took the fever to break, according to Brenna, who announced this the way she announced everything else in her domain –without asking whether anyone wanted to hear it, and while stirring something that smelled like burnt sage and old socks over the cookfire."Three days is fast, for Alpha sickness," she said, not looking up from her pot. "We had a woman here two winters back, took her three weeks to stop trying to claw her way north. You're either stronger than you look, or that bond of yours isn't as deep as it thinks it is.""It's deep," I said, before I could stop myself.Brenna's eyebrows went up. She was somewhere past sixty, built like a woman who'd spent those sixty years doing things that would have killed a softer person, with a long grey braid and hands scarred from what I was fairly sure was both cooking fires and combat. She'd looked at me exactly once, the morning after the fever broke, sniffed hard enough to make her opinion known, a

The kitchen sink had been dripping for nine days straight.A steady, maddening plink… plink… plink that had driven everyone in the house a little closer to the edge. The father of the house finally called a plumber on Friday afternoon, right before he grabbed his overnight bag and headed for the door. He didn’t kiss his wife. He didn’t look at his daughter. He just tossed a folded stack of cash onto the counter and muttered, “Fix it. Don’t call me unless the place is flooding.”Then he was gone. Like always.The house felt bigger the second the garage door closed.Elena, forty-two and still soft in all the places that used to make her husband stare, stood at the kitchen island in a pale blue blouse she hadn’t worn in months. Her daughter, Sophie, twenty-one and home from college for the summer, sat at the table with a half-open textbook she wasn’t reading. Both of them heard the truck pull into the driveway.The doorbell rang once.Elena opened it.The man on the porch was tall enough

The weekend arrived like a fever I couldn’t sweat out.By Saturday morning I had already touched myself twice —once in the shower with my forehead pressed to the cool tile, once in bed with my face buried in the pillow so my roommate wouldn’t hear the broken sounds that kept spilling out of me. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Every time I closed my eyes I felt the weight of his cock on my tongue again, the stretch of his fingers, the calm, filthy way he had called me his good girl while I came all over his hand. The photographs. The lock turning. The promise of next Thursday.Thursday was four days away.I couldn’t wait four days.I told myself I was only going because I needed clarification on the final paper. The secondary sources on Hawthorne’s use of guilt were tangled and I was a scholarship student who couldn’t afford confusion. That was the story I rehearsed the entire bus ride across town, the one I repeated under my breath while I walked the quiet residential street li

The rain had returned by the time I climbed the steps to his office the following Thursday. Seven o’clock exactly. My heart was already hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat, in the soft place between my legs, everywhere.I knocked once. The door opened almost immediately. Professor Hale stood there in the same dark sweater and rolled sleeves he’d worn in class that morning, looking calm and severe and completely unsurprised to see me. He stepped aside. I walked in. The door closed behind me with a soft, deliberate click, and then the lock turned.My stomach dropped and tightened at the same time.He didn’t speak right away. He simply walked past me to the desk, set a slim leather portfolio on the polished surface, and opened it. Photographs. I saw my own face first. Soft, open-mouthed, eyes half-lidded in the dim light of my dorm room. Then another: me in the library stacks, my hand between my thighs, my head tipped back against the shelf. A third where I was clearly saying

OliviaThe rain had been falling since noon, soft and steady against the leaded windows of the old stone building. I sat in the front row of Professor Hale’s seminar the way I always did— my spine straight, my pen moving acros the paper, every answer already rehearsed in my head. Scholarship students didn’t get to look bored. We didn’t get to miss a single mark. My mother still worked double shifts at the hospital back home, and the last time I’d spoken to my father he’d told me not to come back if I failed. So I didn’t fail. I couldn’t.But that afternoon the words on the page kept blurring. It wasn’t the text. It was the low, measured sound of his voice rolling through the lecture hall, the way he paused just long enough for the silence to tighten around every throat in the room. I had spent three months pretending the heat that pooled low in my belly whenever he looked at me was nothing more than academic adrenaline. I was good at pretending. I’d been doing it my whole life.When

He pushed in slowly at first, the fat head stretching my walls inch by inch. I felt every vein, every ridge as he sank deeper, filling me completely until his hips pressed against my ass. The fullness was overwhelming… pleasure bordering on pain in the best way. He stayed buried deep for a long moment, letting me adjust, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “So wet and hot around me. This pussy was made for my cock.”Then he started moving. Long, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside me. The table creaked under us. My tits bounced with every slam, my nipples rubbing against the leather. The fresh tattoo throbbed in time with his strokes, pain and pleasure twisting together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.He leaned over me, his chest against my back, one hand sliding around to rub my clit in tight circles while he fucked me harder. His mouth was on my neck, biting and sucking marks into my ski

The needle finally went silent. Timothee set the machine down with a soft click, but the vibrations still hummed under my skin like a second heartbeat. I was a trembling mess on the chair.. my legs spread wide, sundress bunched uselessly around my waist, pussy swollen and dripping from the combination of pain, pleasure, and his relentless fingers and tongue. The fresh ink on my mound throbbed in time with my clit, the delicate thorns and roses now permanently part of me. Marked by him.Timothee peeled off his gloves slowly, eyes never leaving mine. Those hazel depths were dark now, pupils blown wide with the same hunger I felt twisting low in my belly. “We’re done with the tattoo,” he said, voice rough like gravel wrapped in silk. “But I’m nowhere near done with you, Adele.”I should have said no. Should have pulled my dress down, thanked him, and run back to Ryan’s nonchalant existence. Instead, I whispered, “Then don’t stop.”He stood up, towering over me, and stripped his black t-