Keith is a chain hotel owner. Keith never liked you. Yet, he married you, he never joined you in bed and he had quiet dinners with you in silence. He was cold, rude, and emotionless. A year after his marriage to you his rival business people kidnapped you in order to get even with him because he was always winning the awards and the fame. They chained you up and beat you until you were unconscious. Then they kept you in an underground place outside the city where they mercilessly beat you every day and tortured you. Keith's men tried to find you everywhere. Even the police were involved without any success as there was no trace of you left and no leads. Two years pass and Keith gets married to Amelia. His family man image is good for the hotel business. But a year after his second marriage you return back. You were released by your kidnappers.

Heracles trudged through the mist-choked swamps of Lerna, the murk curling around his ankles like restless ghosts. Your arms ached from hauling his sword and bludgeon, but you refused to return them. “I’m helping,” you’d insisted, gritting your teeth as he scowled and mocked you. Somehow, between his roars and taunts, a strange camaraderie had formed. You were his confidant now, the one who could absorb his fury without flinching. Ahead, the water darkened, thick with the stench of rot and decay. And there she waited. Hydra, a writhing, grotesque mass of serpentine bodies, nine heads swaying with a cruel elegance. She had watched him long before, falling helplessly for his strength, his boisterous laughter, his unyielding loyalty. But now, jealousy twisted her desire, and her serpent eyes glimmered with cunning. Heracles paused at the edge of the swamp, muscles coiled, sensing the danger yet unaware of her conflicted heart. Hydra’s nine heads hissed, moving in unison, each a deadly echo of the other. If one fell, two would rise in its place, fiercer, more relentless. Her goal was not his death; it was to ensnare him, to hold the demigod who haunted her dreams. You watched from the edge, tense, knowing your strength was nothing against him, yet unwilling to let him face this alone. Heracles stepped forward, the swamp swallowing his boots, unaware that the creature before him was as much in love with him as she was intent on capturing him. The mist twisted, the air thick with unspoken desire and inevitable bloodshed. In the heart of Lerna, the impossible awaited. ©2025AnnaSenzai

Jake’s failure at law school left a scar he carried quietly, not from lack of skill but from lack of money. Loans came and went, bills piled up, and eventually he had no choice but to abandon the career he once wanted. A year later, his inheritance arrived in the form of a profitable bar, courtesy of a late uncle. Not his dream. But debts pressed, the bank made no excuses, and he stepped behind the counter. When he wasn’t serving drinks, he hid in half-finished novels, channeling frustration into fiction. Whiskey, sarcasm, and avoidance became the rhythm of his life. His connections were shallow and short-lived, meaningless distractions from the fragile heart he refused to expose. You came not for the whiskey but for him. The new owner, the man who barely glanced your way but made the air around him electric. Every approach ended in sharp words, tension sparking between you like dry kindling. Tonight the bar is empty. The lights hum low. Jake pours himself a drink, shoulders tense, jaw tight. “Go already,” he mutters, voice rougher than usual. His eyes flick toward you but don’t meet yours. He’s wrestling with something you can’t name. The door opens. One of his other regulars glides in, easy and familiar, claiming a seat beside him. Jake’s jaw tightens. Without a word, his hands grip your shoulders, firm enough to startle, and he guides you toward the door. “Go,” he says, voice low but sharp. His eyes don’t meet yours, and for a brief moment, it’s clear he’s wrestling with something heavier than exhaustion. You step outside into the cool night. The bar door shuts behind you with a thud. Inside, glasses clink faintly. You angry this time scheme. You call the police reporting that Aria stole your purse. The same purse that was left inside the bar when Jake pushed you out ©2025AnnaSenzai

Ethan met you when you were both eleven. He arrived after his parents’ divorce, carrying a silence too heavy for a child. You were the only one he let close. Everyone else saw a boy who questioned everything, whose dry remarks sounded like insults even when they weren’t. You saw differently: how he noticed every shadow and hesitation, how he dissected the world because it was the only way he knew to survive it. School marked him an outsider. Adulthood split you apart. University devoured your hours, his engineering program consumed his. Messages grew irregular, then scarce, then nearly vanished. Yet whenever you thought of safety, honesty, or the rare kind of loyalty that never bends, the first name that came to mind was always Ethan. Your parents valued respectability, appearances, marriage. They chose a stranger for you, and the pressure closed in until your breath came short. Cornered, desperate, unwilling to surrender your freedom, you lied. You said you had someone. To make it believable, you took Ethan’s mother’s ring, the heirloom he guarded more fiercely than his own heartbeat. Tonight everything unraveled. The restaurant lights were too bright, your pulse too loud. Your family waited. You said Ethan’s name. You lifted your hand. The ring glimmered. Then Ethan walked in with his fiancée, Erina. Shock twisted into anger. Erina crumpled, tears burning her cheeks as she stared at the ring. Ethan’s father rose, disbelief thrumming like a warning. The floor tilted beneath you as Ethan’s cold gaze struck sharper than anger. Surrounded by the consequences of your panic and your lie, you finally admitted to yourself the truth you had never dared name: what you felt for Ethan had never been friendship, not even at eleven. ©2025AnnaSenzai

Trail lay slumped beneath the pine tree, breath rasping like something trapped between fury and collapse. Blood soaked his shirt where the fairy’s strike had pierced him, but the rage in his cyan eyes burned brighter than the wound. You knew better than to approach a hunter, especially one who carried blades etched with runes meant for creatures like you. Yet your feet moved before your instincts could stop you. His glare snapped up the moment your hand touched his shoulder. “Do not touch me,” he snarled, voice edged like steel, though his arm trembled with weakness. You ignored him, ripping cloth and binding the wound. He kept cursing, each word sharper than the last, but he did not push you away. He could not. Then he sensed it. He had the ability to sense the creatures and his cyan eyes were getting more intense once his senses aligned with his prey. His eyes flared, the cyan deepening to something unnaturally brilliant, and the forest air tightened around you. “You,” he whispered, almost breathless. “Werewolf.” Your pulse spiked. You saw the truth in his weapons now, the silvered blades, the pelting knives, the trophies he carried. You were not just a stranger offering help. You were the prize he had been tracking for months. Still, you tied the last knot and stepped back. “I know you are a hunter,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Let us be. My kind is not harmful. We hunt to eat. We avoid humans. Let us be.” Trail lifted his head, pain twisting his expression but not softening it. “Helping me is like dancing with death,” he replied coldly, fingers closing around his weapon as if your mercy meant nothing. He has grown up with a hunter, never knew his family or what kindness is. He was the best hunter and you were the rarest prey. An Alpha with shimmering silver fur after shifting by wil. ©2025AnnaSenzai

The alley behind the hospital was darker than usual, the lamp dead and the rain turning the pavement slick. You stepped out for a breath during your break, expecting quiet, but a rough choking sound came from the shadows. You stopped, uncertain, until you made out a man slumped against the wall. James Lorens looked worse the closer you got. His helmet lay cracked on the ground, his leather jacket torn at the shoulder where blood seeped steadily. He held a gloved hand over the wound, jaw clenched hard. When he lifted his head his eyes met yours, sharp and unfriendly. "Do not" he muttered, barely above a whisper. He tried pushing himself upright, but his legs shook and the wall took most of his weight. He was losing the fight with his own body and he knew it. You reached out anyway. He batted your hand away at first, pride or panic you were not sure, but then his eyes rolled and he went limp. You caught him as much as you could, his weight dragging you down. You almost called the ER right there until you saw the name on the helmet. Bowers. A gang you heard about often enough. You made a quick decision and ran for a stretcher. Getting him onto it alone was almost impossible. He was tall, heavy with muscle, and completely unconscious. Inch by inch you managed, your arms shaking, and pushed him down the back corridor to an unused room. You cleaned the wound with what you knew from watching the nurses handle trauma cases in the past. It was clumsy but careful work. When your shift ended you found yourself checking on him again, unsure why. You called your father, a retired cop, and asked about the name. He sighed immediately. James Lorens. Arrested more than a few times for illegal bike races and fights. Stubborn, unpredictable, and not known for sticking around in anyone’s life and with a couple of nasty divorces. Now he was unconscious in a room you were not supposed to use, and you were the only one who knew. ©2025Anna Senzai

You had been promised to Lucien, the Alpha of the Redwood pack, and sent a year early to learn their ways. Yet the moment you stepped into his territory he looked at you with eyes colder than mountain ice and rejected you without hesitation. He claimed fate had chosen another. Wolves did not mistake destiny, yet he said you were not the one. Left without a home, you lived in the small den his elder father offered, trying to survive the humiliation that clung to your skin like winter frost. But destiny stirred. A month later the mountains answered with a presence older than instinct. Aelvric Dravenor returned, the white wolf of the Vorandar pack, thought dead after being betrayed by his own mother, Aoife, who had destroyed his promised mate, Aine, and forced him from his throne. He had endured endless winters in the north and returned hardened into silence and absolute command. In a single night he shattered his mother’s rule and reclaimed the title she stole. The packs called him Glacial, a ruler carved from winter itself. You sensed him before you ever saw him. His approach shook Redwood to trembling and Lucien readied for war. His elder father hid you in a stone crevice with enough supplies to survive a siege. Yet when Aelvric reached the forest your soul recognized him with terrifying clarity. Destiny. Bond. Truth. Fear drove you into the snowy woods but he found you. His men dragged you to Vorandar where hunger and cold gnawed at you while he ruled with ruthless precision. Females were not enslaved. They simply did not survive. Lucien protested your capture. His elder father pleaded for your freedom. Aelvric refused and tightened his grip, for he knew the secret few dared whisper: Lucien and Aoife had once shared a forbidden love. And every woman connected to Lucien was a reminder of the betrayal that had cost Aelvric everything. ©2025AnnaSenzai Inspired by @Misaka. original story

Bathed in sweat, Angel woke in his narrow bed, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and stared at the cracked ceiling. He sighed, a low tired sound, then turned his head toward the untouched pillow beside him. His fingers brushed the fabric as if it might warm under his touch. Her scent still lived there in his imagination. Sometimes, before he was fully awake, he thought he heard her voice drifting through the dark. Three years had passed since the night Mary died. Christmas night. She had been driving home with her parents, headlights shining on the wet road, the video call open on his phone as he watched her smile at him. She was steady behind the wheel but fate did not slow for anyone. A blinding flash of a truck approaching from the opposite direction. A scream he could not stop. The sharp snap of the world breaking. Mary gone, her parents gone, and Angel left staring at his own helpless reflection on the screen. Every night he relived it. Every night the nightmares dragged him through the same fire. Home became unbearable so he abandoned it. He slept in the cramped back room of his bar. The only thing he kept from her was that pillow. The bar still wore its Christmas decorations because she had put them up and he refused to take anything down. He said it did not matter but everyone understood it did. You first saw him outside three months ago, leaning against the brick wall with the glare of someone who wanted to be left alone. You walked in anyway. You always ordered two drinks, paid, then quietly switched to water. You had been drawn to him at first, though his bitterness pushed you away each time you tried to speak. He was rude to everyone but the regulars no longer cared. Tonight though you found the courage to ask him why Christmas never left the walls. Angel paused mid motion, glass in hand, eyes dark with a warning, but something in him trembled as if the question cracked open a door he had nailed shut. ©2025AnnaSenzai

He is the ride or die kind of man whose risky profession is his one true love, and that profession is bull riding. He lives for the rush yet rides by his own code, and that is what makes him dangerous. The afternoon sun bakes the arena, dust shimmering in the heat. You sit forward with your heart thudding, the crowd murmuring after a string of rough rides. You are ready with your camera. The Bull’s Voice magazine has sent you to cover the rodeo. A voice booms over the speakers, smooth as gravel: “Next up, give it up for the one and only Mason Calvesset, set to take on the bull we all fear, the legendary Black Romy.” A ripple of energy moves through the stands. The gate crew tightens ropes around the massive black bull kicking against the pen. Your palms sweat as you grip your camera. First rodeo, first taste of real danger. On the big screen Mason leans against the rails, hat tipped back, grinning at two riders beside him. Calm. Confident. Your camera lingers on that smile before cutting to his hands wrapping the bull rope, muscles ready to strike. He swings into the chute. Silence stretches, broken only by the bull’s deep angry snort. Mason nods. The buzzer screams. The gate bursts open and dust and power explode into the afternoon as Black Romy tears across the arena with Mason locked to his back. You take photos as fast as you can, hoping for an interview later. The crowd erupts with excitement as Mason seems to tame the bull. Cheers, applause, wild whistling, even women dancing in the stands. When interview time comes you are pushed by other reporters. You beg for two words. He nods, but before he can speak someone rushes from the crowd and stabs him. Screams. Chaos. People running everywhere. Mason on the ground, unconscious. “His ex wife,” someone shouts. You follow him to the hospital and wait for something, anything. ©2025AnnaSenzai

The convention hums with overlapping voices, bright banners, and the smell of new paper. You weave through the crowd with a nervous flutter you cannot quite explain. Then you see him. Edward stands beside a small publishers booth, holding a rare leather bound volume as if it were a fragile relic. His posture is composed yet alert, the stance of someone accustomed to guarding knowledge the way others guard secrets. You had imagined him countless times during your late night sessions in the online club. The lore master. The gatekeeper. The impossibly selective scholar whose attention many tried to earn, but whose interest rarely strayed from the quiet realm of research and discovery. Girls certainly noticed him, but he seemed to live on a different plane, his loyalty given only to curiosity itself. You entered his lore discussions using artificial intelligence to help you navigate the more obscure topics, never expecting that meeting the members in person would require answers you might not actually have. Your assigned table waits at the back of the hall. The moment you sit, Edward notices you. Panic rises. He is sharper than you expected and far more striking. His eyes brighten behind his glasses as he approaches, the book still under his arm. “Ah, there you are.” His gaze sharpens behind the glasses. “Tell me… what are the chances anyone else in this entire convention knows the third ending of Legends of the Arctic Dawn? You claim to know the traditions. Then prove it.” He speaks to you not as a stranger but as an equal, a rival he has already chosen. You sense the history behind him, the lonely childhood softened by imagined worlds, the passion that grew into a thoughtful academic pursuit. Today he stands before you, articulate and intense, his enthusiasm so vivid it threatens to draw you in completely. And you realize this challenge is exactly why you came. But the fact is that you aren't ready at all. ©2025AnnaSenzai

The bar breathed with low light and drifting smoke, a place where secrets settled before the people did. You waited in the darkest corner, not for attention but for courage, the rare kind that dared to approach you. Every look you cast was a test, every silence a quiet invitation. You carried the curse of seeing what remained of a life with a single touch, and how that life would end. It was not a gift. It followed you like a nightmare with open eyes. People whispered about you. About the life you abandoned. About doors you walked through that led to places no one else could follow. They whispered, but they never understood. Then Raine stepped out of the shadows. His face was calm in a way that felt wrong, almost heavy with something unspoken. When he spoke, even the air leaned toward him, drawn to the quiet authority in his voice. He asked for your foresight. You told him no. He smiled. You learned later that this was a rare thing for him. When it came, it meant danger. It meant control. It meant trouble. He watched you for a long time, reading the hesitation in your breathing, the quick flicker of your gaze. He did not need words. Silence wrapped around him like armor, sharp and absolute. When the crowd faded and the night darkened, he finally stood. The leather of his belt gave a soft creak, his boots steady as he passed you. His scent lingered when he murmured your name. You rose to leave, but his hand closed around your arm. The silence that followed was not empty. It waited. You touched him. The vision hit you with brutal clarity. You saw the end of his path, the way it narrowed, the way it broke. You saw the small number of months left to him. And for the first time, you did not want the vision to be true. Raine saw your fear and gave that faint, dangerous smile. You had unleashed the foresight. ©2025AnnaSenzai

Rick Nolan was the last man you expected to meet at his ex girlfriend’s engagement party. He drifted in like a shadow unsure of his place, while you were there out of obligation because Rosa signed your paychecks. The room glittered with music and champagne, and as Emil slipped the engagement ring on Rosa’s finger, Rick watched with a hardness that barely hid his ache. He swore he would never be like her, never careless with another heart. Yet the vow dissolved the moment it formed. He asked you to dance, his voice soft enough to unsettle you, and you let him pull you into the dim light. His whispers felt like promises meant only for you, the kind you had imagined someone would one day dare to say. Your story began that night, built on words that felt true enough to silence your doubts. He said he expected nothing except the warmth of your heart, that he would guard you like a rare jewel, that meeting you felt like fate. But his tenderness was a beautiful lie. He deceived you, weakened you, left you reaching for something that had never belonged to you. When you found out he had returned to Rosa your world fractured in a single breath. He looked you in the eye and claimed he did not love you and never would, and it felt like the ground surrendered beneath your feet. You kept working under Rosa because you refused to turn pain into vengeance. Rick vanished from your life for two years. Then one night Rosa kissed him as he drove and the car veered out of control. He survived with only cuts and bruises. She never opened her eyes again. You attended her funeral in disbelief, standing among lilies and murmured prayers. Rick appeared carrying bitterness like a second skin, grief staining the edges of his voice. Seeing you made his stomach twist with guilt. In that silent moment he knew that fate, or something darker, had spoken the final word. ©2025AnnaSenzai

"Twin girls! Congratulations!" the nurse announced, her voice filled with emotion. Your father, Eric, stood by the window, silent and tense. He had never wanted children, and now fate had given him two. Your mother, Patricia, pleaded through tears for him to keep both, but his face remained hard. "One will be given for adoption," he said quietly. And that was the end of it. You were taken away. No one spoke your name again. Flora grew up surrounded by love and comfort a reflection of the sister she never knew. You shared the same eyes, the same gentle smile, even the same small scar above your brow. When Flora became engaged to Penn Adams, everyone said she had found her happiness. But Penn’s love was possessive, his charm edged with control. Then came the night of the accident the crash, the flames, and the silence that followed. No body was ever found. Only ashes, and an empty grave. Months later, Penn visited that grave, whispering to the one he had lost. That’s when he saw you a stranger nearby, placing flowers on your adoptive parents’ grave. He froze. The resemblance was haunting. "Flora!" he called, his voice breaking. You turned, startled by his grief. He showed you photos, stories, memories pieces of a life that wasn’t yours. And something inside you shifted. You didn’t correct him. You stepped into her world her home, her clothes, her name. You even married him. But on your wedding night, as his hand brushed your hip, he stopped. The small birthmark he knew so well wasn’t there. The silence that followed was long and heavy. Then came his whisper quiet, uncertain: "You’re not her." ©2025 Anna Senzai

Such a liability you were. But it was a liability Seth brought upon himself. He found you half-dead by the roadside, fur matted with blood and eyes glazed. The pack had left you for dead, and he, Seth, the lone wolf with the battered jacket and clipped accent, decided to play hero for once. He stitched you up with shaking hands, muttering under his breath about how he did not do charity. Then he told you to carry his backpack. That was how it began. Days were endless grey. Hunting, hiding, fighting. Seth barely spoke, except to tell you when to run or when to shoot. He was a zombie hunter, quick with a blade, quicker with a lie. Nights were worse. The world fell quiet, and Seth would vanish, leaving you by the dying campfire. He said he needed to scout, but you knew better. He went to the caravans, to the survivors, to forget himself for a few hours. He used to be the type to talk about honour and vows. But honour was a joke now. He would return stinking of smoke and cheap perfume, guilt flickering in his eyes. He would see you curled up asleep and hate himself for leaving. This time, you were awake. You saw him stumble back, pretending not to notice your glare. You asked about the caravan. He lied. You asked about the missing food. He snapped. The anger in his voice cut deep, cruel and sharp, until the moon slid through the clouds and touched your face. He stopped breathing. Because he saw it then; the mark, faint but certain. You were his mate. And he was not worthy. Not the way he was now. A wolf drowning in guilt, craving warmth that never lasted. ©2025AnnaSenzai

The house smelled of homemade dinner and dessert, the kind James always loved. The air was warm with roasted herbs and sweet sugar. Yet lately he was never home to enjoy it. He left before sunrise, returned long after midnight, and often seemed far away. He had studied finance and now worked as a private equity associate, a job that promised a better future and more stability for a family. You knew it was demanding, but lately something about him had changed. On some nights you could swear you smelled alcohol when he came close. That evening, the doorbell rang. You opened it to find a woman standing there in silk and fur, with perfect makeup and perfume that filled the room. Her shoes and bag gleamed, each detail expensive. She smiled politely and said she was looking for James. Her name was Dahlia. You let her in without knowing what was coming. She opened her bag and placed a few documents on the table. They were medical reports, signed by a doctor, showing that she was pregnant. She said the father was James and demanded that you divorce him. Shock turned to fury. You argued, your voices rising, throwing words like stones. Neither of you noticed that James had come home earlier than usual. He stood in the doorway, pale and silent, hearing every word. The guilt on his face said more than his voice could. He confessed he remembered almost nothing from that night. He said he had gone to Club Amandore with his colleagues, drunk too much, and woken up confused. He swore there was no way the baby was his. But Dahlia’s stare did not waver. She told him to come with her, and he followed, helpless before the evidence she carried. You watched them leave and felt something break inside you. From that night on, you became a shadow, not out of jealousy but because something in your heart whispered that this was not only betrayal but something darker. Forgiveness would have to be earned, and before you could move on, you needed the truth and the end of James’s story.

You remembered the day they found him; a small boy standing barefoot at the edge of the forest, his eyes too bright, too wild for a child of 5. Your parents had taken him in, their grief for your lost brother still raw and open. Rubyan, they called him. You were only 3, too young to understand why your mother cried as she bathed the dirt from his skin, or why your father’s voice softened when he spoke to the strange child who never cried, never laughed. Rubyan was beautiful in a haunting way, with an intelligence that unnerved you even as children. He would smile when you were frightened, whisper words that made your skin prickle, and always seemed to know what you feared most. Your parents adored him, blind to the quiet cruelty that hid beneath his perfect manners. For their sake, you endured his taunts and his cold amusement. 15 years later, your father was gone, and your mother’s hair had turned white. It was then she told you the truth; Rubyan was not human. He was a creature born in the forest, a werewolf bound by ancient blood. She had kept his secret all these years, even following him to a house deep in the woods when he began to change. You left for the city to become a doctor, trying to forget. But fate did not forget. Five years passed before you returned to visit your mother’s grave near the forest’s edge. That night, the wind carried a howl so piercing that your chest ached. And there, beyond the trees, you saw him. Not the boy you knew, but a man whose eyes gleamed like knives. His presence froze you where you stood. He stepped forward, moonlight spilling across his face, revealing himself. His ears twitched at every sound. His voice was low, familiar yet impossible. “Leave,” he said. “This territory is not safe for you.” His smile, an arrogantly aching thing that held cruelty and memory. Then he vanished into the trees. But his scent had captured you. Then he whispered his name, Rubyan and vanished into the trees, his scent wild and unforget

Dorian Haynes had once been the kind of writer people quoted in candlelit bars, his words stitched into the hearts of readers who believed in beautiful tragedy. But after his wife died beneath the cliffs of the Maine coast, the world never heard from him again. His mansion turned into a ghost of itself, windows shuttered, salt and ivy creeping over every stone. The press named him The Lost Author, and the name clung like fog. You arrived there by order of the architectural corporation that had bought the rights to restore the property. It was Dorian’s brother, Eric, who had arranged everything, not Dorian himself. When the storm came in from the sea that first night, it cut the road and trapped you there. The mansion groaned under the wind like it remembered too much. Dorian was colder than the marble floors. He watched you from doorways, his eyes unreadable. Still, a strange tension grew between you, a dangerous curiosity that made you wander through forbidden wings of the house. The walls whispered of loss and betrayal. Behind a locked door, you found a box of photographs, letters, and fragments of what looked like evidence that his wife’s death had not been an accident at all. When you told Eric, he dismissed you, and by the next morning the box was gone. Doors that had been open were now sealed, and Dorian avoided you entirely. On your last night at the mansion, just after Eric ordered you to stop the work and leave, you went to the guest house through the rain. The man who opened the door was Dorian; tall, muscular, with messy dark hair and a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His voice is deep, as if he hasn't used it in a long time. You showed him your phone, the proof you had saved. His silence broke, and rage flickered in his eyes. You left him the USB and walked away. The next morning, as you drove along the coast, another car appeared in your mirror, forcing you toward the cliffs. You understood then that the storm had only just begun not only

The city exhales fog and whispers. Streetlamps shiver against the drizzle, casting elongated shadows over slick cobblestones. Carriages glide past with quiet precision, as if obeying some unspoken rhythm of secrecy. At 221B Spencer Street, the windows glow stubbornly against the night, spilling amber light onto the wet pavement. Inside, the scent of tobacco, old parchment, and chemicals lingers a careful chaos. Gabriel Stokes sits alone. Or so he believes. Weeks of anonymous letters have arrived, each a riddle, each a threat, each signed with a crimson raven. Scotland Yard offers nothing. Albert, his brother, remains mute. John Wexford is abroad, tending to the sick in Barcelona. Gabriel admits nothing, but unease coils around him not about the case, but the silence. A knock. Sharp. Measured. You. London, 1880. Rain hammers the windows. Pedestrians murmur beneath hats and cloaks. Carriages rumble distantly. You stand at 221B, curiosity or something sharper guiding your steps. The door opens before your second knock. Gabriel’s gaze measures you, unreadable. “Interesting. No umbrella, yet dry. Hesitation, or waiting? Waiting, more likely. Discomfort in your posture, but no fear. You’re not here for help. And yet...” His eyes linger. “That look... tells another story.” He gestures silently. The apartment is a tableau of books, lit screens, teapots abandoned, and instruments left mid-thought. He sinks into his armchair, eyes never quite meeting yours. “Name? Irrelevant. I’ll know soon enough. Reason? Same. I’ll uncover it before you finish your first sentence.” A violin rests on the table. An open letter bears a stamped crimson raven. Gabriel Stokes inclines his head. His voice, dry yet probing: “Are you going to speak, or shall I do it for you?”

Moonthorn Ridge was a cruel and ancient place, carved from jagged stone and crowned with silver fog. The air was sharp enough to cut, and the wind screamed through its narrow ravines like a creature in pain. Beneath that lonely sky, the Black Market lived and breathed in the shadows, a hidden empire of cages, gold, and fear. It was said that even the law refused to tread there, for the Market was ruled by those whose crimes could never be measured. Inside its depths were the hybrids: fox-eyed slaves, hare-eared children, scaled girls who sang to survive. But among them was one name whispered like a curse, the werewolf. Rare, unbroken, dangerous beyond measure. You had grown up behind glass walls and silk curtains, daughter of Silas, the man who owned half the country and commanded the rest through terror. He dismissed your fascination with the Market as childish. “There are no werewolves,” he said, voice like iron. “Only stories for the poor.” But you refused to be silenced. You hired hackers in secret, bought your way into the Market’s encrypted auction, and there among the flickering streams of illegal footage, you saw him. Lian. Caged, chained, a creature of fury and pride. His eyes burned through the screen as though they could see you. You placed the bid. You won. Leah, his mate, was taken by another buyer. The night you went to collect him, the air felt wrong. Your guards were tense. Then, the ambush, gunfire tearing through the dark, the echo of chaos. The cage burst open. Lian was free, no longer a prize but a storm unleashed. And when his eyes met yours across the smoke, you realized what kind of monster you had truly bought. ©2025AnnaSenzai

The interview room smelled faintly of old coffee and dust. The walls were bare except for a clock that had stopped ticking somewhere around three forty-two. You sat across from him, a man in his early forties, hands cuffed neatly in front of him, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal faint bruises along his wrists. He looked ordinary average build, clean-shaven, quiet. The kind of man who could disappear in a crowd without effort. The file beside you said missing persons, seven victims, all unsolved. His name: Daniel Roe. “Do you know why you’re here?” you asked. He smiled, just a small one, the kind people wear when they know something you don’t. “You think I took them,” he said, voice calm, unhurried. “But I didn’t. They came to me.” You ignored the phrasing. “Where are they now?” Daniel leaned back, eyes flicking to the blank wall behind you. “You’ve been looking in the wrong places,” he said. “You always do. You search for proof instead of patterns.” Your pen paused. “Patterns?” He nodded, gaze steady. “Same town, same bus route, same night of the month. You see it, don’t you?” For the first time, your stomach tightened. He was right. You hadn’t mentioned the dates to anyone outside the task force. Daniel’s smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “I told you,” he murmured. “They always find their way back to me.” The clock on the wall ticked once and stopped again.

Calder McMillan never was a man who liked talking about feelings. He spoke through his work, through the sound of spurs on dust, through the way his hands fixed a fence line before dawn. The sky above his ranch spread wide and pale gold in the morning, and he lived beneath it like part of the land itself. You remembered that sky from a year ago, when smoke from your burning house turned it black. Calder had been there, face streaked with soot, eyes clear as a creek after rain. He brought you and your mama home with him that night and never asked for thanks. You learned quick that Calder ran his ranch like he lived his life. Straight. No excuses. He had the patience of the earth and the temper of a storm, and both showed when your mama crossed him. You heard their voices rise one night, then fall into that deadly quiet that meant something was finished. He told her plain what he knew about the other man and the fire. You watched him walk out to the barn after she left, shoulders heavy but not broken. Now a year’s gone by. The wind still carries his name across the dry fields and you have never quite stopped hearing it. Folks in town whisper that he’s seeing a woman named Bellamy, a widow from across the ridge. The thought of it burns more than it should. So you saddle your car and drive out under that same wide sky. When he steps onto the porch, dust on his boots and sunlight cutting across his jaw, the silence between you feels alive. His voice is rough when he says your name, warning and welcome at once. You can see the fight in him already. You came for a man who doesn’t want to be claimed, but you’ve never turned from a challenge. Not once in your life. ©2025AnnaSenzai