The kingdom of Eldrith was now nothing more than an echo of its former glory. Bells had fallen silent in fear, streets were empty, and the blue banners that once fluttered in the wind had been replaced by the blood-red wolf of Aserian Ragnvar, the twenty-six-year-old king who had conquered everything with ruthless precision. Aserian was not just a king — he was a predator. His hair burned like red flames, and his icy blue eyes were sharp and unyielding. Standing 1.90 meters tall, with broad shoulders and a posture of unmovable stone, no one dared look at him without trembling. Harsh, cruel, and uncompassionate, he commanded his army and palace with an iron fist, and the voices of the conquered were swallowed by the oppressive silence of his presence. In a forgotten corner of the capital, there lived a girl who had no reason to believe her fate would change. Elira, a twenty-year-old with chestnut, wavy hair and warm brown eyes, had grown up in a small house on the outskirts of the city. Her naturally red lips and 1.74-meter-tall strong, agile frame were shaped by hard work and the responsibility of protecting her younger sisters, Anya and Lina. On the night Aserian’s army breached the city walls, their home was the first to fall. Tomas, their father, had tried to protect them, but the soldiers’ brute force shattered the doors and crushed any hope of resistance. Mirela, their ailing mother, could do nothing, while the younger sisters cried in terror. Amid the chaos, Elira was ripped from their hands. Soldiers shoved her down smoke-filled streets, past ruins and fire, and her eyes never stopped searching for her family. Behind them, the city collapsed, but Elira didn’t falter. The palace was immense and cold, with long corridors of stone that seemed to absorb every sound of life. Here, Elira was confined to a modest but clean room, barred from freedom. Pale light filtered through a narrow window, and silence was the only

Rome. A warm night, the city lights casting long shadows over narrow streets. Detective Lorenzo Moretti, 29, stepped out of his car with firm strides. His gaze was cold yet sharp. A strong jawline, chestnut hair, piercing blue eyes, and a short mustache. His athletic build spoke of years of discipline. He had been called by his half-brother, Bruno, a man deeply entangled in Rome’s criminal world. When Lorenzo entered his villa, Bruno was waiting with a glass of whiskey in hand. — I’m glad you came, brother. There’s a big problem. — What kind of problem? — A woman. Dangerous. She killed two of my men. Her name is Isabella Rossi. Lorenzo tilted his head, studying him. — And why would I care about a mafia woman? I investigate crimes, not broken hearts. — Because you’re the only one who can stop her. Or understand her. A few days later, Lorenzo met her. Isabella Rossi, 24, walked into an upscale restaurant in central Rome. She wore a black elegant dress. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders, her green eyes cold and sharp. She moved with the confidence of a queen. — Detective, I’ve been expecting you. — I didn’t know danger had such a beautiful name. — Flattery won’t help you, Moretti. Do you want answers or are you just here to study me? — I want the truth. — The truth isn’t for everyone. You might not handle it. She provoked him, analyzed him, dominated him through intelligence and calm control. She ran legal import and transport companies, but also managed powerful illegal networks. People feared and respected her. Lorenzo followed her, yet with every encounter, he found himself more trapped in her game. Would you like me to continue with the next part, where Lorenzo starts protecting Isabella in secret while his brother orders her death?

(the king's name is Ezra white hair blue eyes big lips a body of a god great powers he was a knight who conquered kingdoms and became king so he was had the most powerful kingdom he had been looking for a queen and had found you he is 30 years old and 2.12 sharp face he was also possessive and super jealous then after xe gives birth to his son he goes to her house) He: hello my love She: you ....is..you He: your future husband

She was only 19. Beautiful, elegant, with long curly chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, and soft pink lips. A talented young woman from Italy who played the piano and loved to draw. But everything changed when her strict father sold her to a ruthless Jordanian mafia leader, a man bound by tradition and deep religious rules. On her wedding day, she was dressed in an expensive princess-like gown, her face hidden beneath a long veil. She was taken to his massive palace — guarded, cold, and unfamiliar. The ceremony was held in his language, and she didn’t understand a word. When he lifted her veil, everyone in the room froze. She was breathtaking, unlike anything they'd ever seen. He was Amir, 27 years old. Tall, muscular, with black hair, sculpted features, and piercing blue eyes. Known for his coldness and authority, he ruled with iron discipline. But the moment he saw her, something shifted — he fell madly in love. She, terrified, ran to her room and locked the door. In the following days, he tried to win her over. He gave her expensive gifts, bought her two Persian cats — one white, one orange — and even created a room just for her painting. He refused to let her work, wanting her to live in comfort, pampered and free… but under constant watch. Still, she felt trapped. One morning, she disappeared.

Inés, a 25-year-old architect from Spain, arrived in Istanbul for a special project. With soft chestnut hair streaked with blonde, warm chocolate eyes, and red lips like strawberries, she loved flowers, sweets, and history. Graceful and elegant, she was instantly enchanted by the city. One day, she bumped into a man—tall, muscular, with tattoos on his neck and hands, wearing a black shirt. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his gaze… intense. Obsession. Possession. He helped her gather the scattered papers, said nothing more, and she walked away. But something changed in him. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Gifts started arriving: flowers, jewelry, baklava. No name. Just silent messages. He was Altay, 35, the secret ruler of Istanbul’s underworld, feared and powerful—but raised in a traditional family with a sweet shop and a love for heritage. His sister, Elif, worked with Inés. One evening, Elif invited her to dinner. Inés entered in a red dress—and saw him again. Altay. Their eyes met. Fire and fate. When Inés announced she would stay in Istanbul, his mind was made up.

The Andalusian sun shimmered off your phone screen, but the message you’d just read sent chills through your body: “Your sister, Alma, ran off to Argentina with her lover. The divorce papers were fake. Her daughter is alone. Nathan Carter wants to speak with you.” You sat on the edge of your bed, gripping the phone tightly. Alma — always beautiful and impulsive — had been married to Nathan Carter: half Japanese, half American, obscenely rich and terrifyingly powerful. You’d never met him. You only knew of him through whispers and carefully chosen family photos. But blood calls to blood. Not to Alma — she had made her choices. But to her daughter. Your niece. Emily, only nine years old. Alone. The next day, you quit your job as a teacher, packed two suitcases and your massive gray Maine Coon, Whiskers, and boarded a flight to Tokyo. You had no plan. Only love — and a strange, trembling hope. --- Tokyo The mansion looked like something out of a movie — or a dream. Hidden behind black steel gates, it sat in a vast garden lined with blooming cherry blossoms. A koi pond glimmered under the trees, and guards moved discreetly through shadowed paths. The garage held cars worth more than your entire town. When you stepped through the gate, Whiskers perched on your shoulder, the world seemed to freeze. Dozens of eyes turned toward you. His family — Nathan’s — stood on the front steps: mother, father, siblings, cousins, elders. Then he stepped forward. Nathan Carter. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tattooed arms, jet-black hair, and ice-blue eyes that locked onto yours and didn’t let go. A man who radiated both danger and discipline — the kind of man people obeyed without question. He studied you, expression unreadable. — “You’re her sister?” he said, voice deep and quiet. You nodded. Whiskers meowed indignantly. — “You’ve come for the child?” — “I’ve come to care for her,” you answered, standing straighter. Nathan stepped closer, eyes narr

Elena, a 19-year-old student from a poor village in England, loses her parents in a tragic accident. Left alone, she is invited to live with her older brother, Damian, in America. Damian works as a bodyguard for a powerful and dangerous Italian mafia boss, Alessandro Mancini. When Elena arrives at the enormous mansion, she’s overwhelmed — three floors, a huge pool, gardens, a private library, art room, gym, playground. She enters the house with her two cats, Gheruțe (a Maine Coon) and Mustăți (a Persian), and all eyes fall on her. She is stunning. And Alessandro notices. Tall, intimidating, with brown eyes and a tattoo on his neck, Alessandro becomes obsessed with Elena at first sight. He has a 6-year-old daughter, Sofia, and Elena is asked to be her nanny. Under this excuse, Alessandro slowly invades her life — showering her with gifts, buying her a car, setting up a full art studio just for her. What Elena doesn’t know is that Alessandro forced Damian to keep silent and allow him to get close to her. She tries to resist, but Alessandro’s dark charm draws her in. One night, she gives in, and they share a passionate night that changes everything.

I was 21. Young, innocent, with chocolate-brown eyes and soft chestnut hair streaked with gold. Music was my world. When I inherited an old house and garden in a gloomy German town, I thought it was a fresh start. I found a job in a quiet, eerie bar and worked nights. One evening, I drank too much. Laughter. Darkness. Silence. I woke up in a grand, luxurious bedroom, lying in silk sheets. I was wearing a wedding dress—and I knew instantly… I was no longer innocent. The door opened. He stepped in. Tall, pale, with black hair and glowing red eyes. Beautiful and terrifying. He looked at me like I belonged to him. — “You are finally awake… my bride,” he said.

At 23, Lia arrived in Spain alone and poor, with nothing but hope. She was tall, graceful, with dark brown hair and warm hazel eyes. Searching for work, she found an ad for a live-in nanny. The job led her to a luxurious villa on the coast. There, she met Alessia, an 8-year-old Italian girl with green eyes and chestnut hair who played violin and ballet. The two bonded instantly—Alessia even began calling her "Mommy." But Alessia’s father, Dario Romano, was no ordinary man. An elegant and ruthless Italian with green eyes, tattoos on his neck and hands, and a powerful presence. A mafia boss. From the moment he saw Lia, he was obsessed. He gave her gifts, forbade her from leaving, and watched her every move. — “You belong here. You’re mine,” he said. One night, after a private dinner, Lia drank wine and blacked out. When she woke, she was in a white dress. A ring on her finger. — “What happened?” she whispered. — “We got married,” Dario said calmly. “You’re my wife now. You signed the papers.”

She was 25 years old — beautiful, graceful, and poor. Her eyes were a piercing shade of blue, and her long chestnut hair fell in soft waves down her back. Tall and elegant, she carried herself with quiet dignity despite her modest upbringing. For years, she had worked as a schoolteacher in a small village, loved by her students and admired for her intelligence. But when the school shut down due to lack of funding, she was left without a job — and without options. That’s when she accepted a position at the royal castle: governess to the crown prince. She had no idea her life was about to change forever. --- She arrived at the castle wearing a flowing blue dress that hugged her waist and brought out the vivid blue of her eyes. Her hair was loose, tumbling softly around her shoulders. As she stepped into the grand hall, silence fell. Courtiers, servants, and guards turned to stare. Her beauty stunned everyone. But no one was more affected than the king. King Auren, 35 years old, tall and commanding at 1.98 meters, had the air of a warrior — muscular, stern, with short black hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and piercing blue eyes. Known across the kingdom as cold, ruthless, and heartless, he had ruled with an iron fist since the death of his wife four years ago. People called him a tyrant. Others said he no longer had a soul. But when he saw her, something in him stirred. — What is your name? he asked, descending the staircase slowly, eyes fixed on her. — My name doesn’t matter, Your Majesty. I’m here to educate your son. Her voice was calm and composed — and she didn’t flinch under his gaze. She was hired immediately. Her intelligence, elegance, and presence were enough to convince even the skeptical royal advisors. She soon moved into the castle and took a room near the prince’s chambers. Prince Leor, just 14, had suffered deeply since the loss of his mother. He had green eyes and raven-black hair like his father, but his soul was warm and ye

Elira was twenty years old. Tall, graceful, with jet-black hair and piercing green eyes, she was unlike any woman in the kingdom. Her dancing was a form of magic—silent, captivating, unforgettable. The night of the royal ball, dozens of dancers performed in the grand palace. But when Elira stepped into the hall, the world stopped. Her movements were poetry, every step a soft command over the crowd’s breath. High on his golden throne sat King Elias, a man of twenty-six. Tall, powerful, with golden hair tied at the nape of his neck and icy blue eyes, he was known as a cold, ruthless ruler. A tyrant. A man feared and obeyed. But when he saw her, everything in him shattered. She danced for the room. But he knew—every motion was for him alone. When the music ended, his voice echoed across the room: — "Bring her to me." The Obsession Begins She was led to his private chamber. He stood waiting, arms crossed, eyes burning. — "Your name?" he asked, calm but intense. — "Elira," she whispered. He stepped closer. — "Elira… Your name sounds like your dance. Soft. Perfect." From that moment, nothing was the same. He sent her gifts daily — gowns, jewels, rare flowers, even a private hall just for her to dance. He watched her in silence, never letting her out of sight. No other man could speak to her without feeling his wrath. He didn’t just want her. He needed her. He went to her family personally, his voice firm and final: — "I love her. I will make her my queen." And who could refuse the king? Elira felt overwhelmed — but drawn to him. Behind the cruel armor, she saw the broken man. Lonely. Starved for something real. Slowly, she let herself care. And then… love. The Wedding Their wedding was glorious. The entire kingdom watched as the king, feared by thousands, bent before a dancer.

In the kingdom of Dalaen, on the southern edge of the continent—where men still whispered of things that hunted in the dark—lived a young noblewoman named Seraphina Valemont. She was breathtaking: tall, with long, wavy chestnut hair and striking ice-blue eyes that seemed to see right through people. At twenty-one, she was known not only for her beauty but also for her sharp mind and quiet strength. But nothing could have prepared her for the moment her father summoned her to his study late one evening. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, not daring to meet her gaze. — “You’ve been promised, Seraphina… to the King of Monsters. For peace between our lands.” Her heart stopped. The man she was meant to marry was King Aidan Kaelan, ruler of Theronvale—the hidden realm of monsters. Aidan was no ordinary king; he was a werewolf, a creature of legends, and said to be as terrifying as he was powerful. Thirty-five years old, with midnight-black hair, piercing green eyes, and a body carved from war, he ruled with an iron fist and a cold heart. He had one son—Kael, twelve years old, with green eyes like his father and soft brown hair. With no choice, Seraphina was escorted through haunted forests and silent hills to his dark kingdom. The night she met him, her breath caught in her throat. Aidan was more than dangerous—he was captivating. Strong, tall, commanding… his eyes burned with an ancient pain. They were married that very night beneath a blood-red moon. No guests. No music. Just shadows and silence. Her gown shimmered like silver in moonlight. His cloak bore the crest of a wolf surrounded by flames. And when he whispered to her in the dark, his voice was low, rough, final: — “You belong to me now. I won’t ask for love. Only loyalty.” But love—wild and uninvited—ignited anyway. That night, he claimed her with a hunger that wasn’t just physical. His kiss was dominance and desperation. His touch was fire on her skin. Despite everything, she tr

In the distant Kingdom of Virelia, a young woman lived among steam and fire — a cook in a busy tavern kitchen. Nineteen years old, poor, and orphaned, Alina had nothing but her hands and a rare gift for flavor. Her name was whispered across the capital for the way she turned even simple ingredients into magic. She had chestnut hair with golden strands and deep brown eyes. All she ever wanted was a quiet life… until one night changed everything. It was her day off. She laughed and drank with two friends at the harbor inn. The wine made her dizzy, but she felt light, free. Somewhere in the shadows, a man watched her. Tall, with long chestnut hair tied back, piercing blue eyes, and a dangerous air. When she could no longer walk straight, he caught her. Helped her home. That night blurred into heat and whispers. She remembered hands, lips, the scent of musk and leather. And then... nothing. In the morning, he was gone. Only a red rose left on the pillow. --- Two months passed. The nausea, the silence of her body — she was pregnant. But the shock came later. At the royal parade, she looked up and her heart stopped. The man from that night… was the King. King Caden. The tyrant. Ruthless in war, cold in politics, feared by all. Thirty years old, father of a child, and completely out of reach. She panicked. Avoided the palace. Tried to vanish. But men in dark cloaks began to follow her. Watching. Guarding. Silently. One day, her body gave out. In the middle of the town square, she fainted. --- When she awoke, she wasn’t in her home. She was in a palace room — rich velvet curtains, golden mirrors, her old clothes neatly folded on a chair. Then the door creaked. A little girl in a pale ballet dress stepped in. Blonde curls. Bright blue eyes. Maybe nine years old. — “You’re awake. I’m Liora. You’re the one with the baby, right?” the girl said cheerfully. — “Who told you that?” Alina whispered. — “Daddy. The King. But I just call him Daddy.”

I was 25, living in Spain with my three-year-old daughter, Lyra. She had my long, wavy brown hair, but deep blue eyes—just like her father, who had died two years ago. One night, my phone rang. It was Helga, the mother of my sister Mere’s husband. — “Mere is dead. I thought you should know.” Without thinking twice, I packed our bags and flew to Germany. At the funeral, I saw him—Leonhard von Falken. My sister’s husband. Thirty-five. Tall, broad, dark-haired, with piercing light blue eyes and a trimmed beard. He held his five-year-old daughter, Anneliese, in his arms. When he looked at me, it wasn’t grief I saw—it was hunger. Intensity. Possession. — “You and Lyra will stay in my home. You’ll be safe there.” He offered me a job as his personal assistant. But soon, his touches lingered. His voice lowered. His gifts became more intimate. He’d corner me in the hallway, his breath hot against my neck. — “I never loved your sister. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw your photo. Since the wedding. You were always my weakness.”

She was 23—blue eyes, blonde hair, a little drunk after a party. When she got home, he was there. Alessandro. Her 25-year-old Italian friend. Dark hair, piercing blue eyes. They had always been close, but that night... they crossed a line. They spent the night together. In the morning, he left without a word. Months passed. She moved from Italy to a quiet, charming town in France. She bought a modern house, worked in marketing, and tried to start over. Then she found out she was pregnant. She never told him. She gave birth to a baby girl—Lyra. Black hair, blue eyes. Just like him. Three months later, one night, she woke up and saw Alessandro in the living room… holding Lyra in his arms.

She fled on a stormy night, her heart pounding louder than the rain against the train windows. She left everything behind: a quiet life in Marseille, a small apartment, and a man she had loved with a blind, burning devotion. But he… he was not what he seemed. Wealthy, magnetic, almost too beautiful to be real — and yet, beneath the charm, something inhuman. She had seen it with her own eyes: blood on his lips, his gaze glowing crimson in the dark. A vampire. She escaped to Switzerland, to a secluded town nestled between mountains — Valdenbourg. The town was dim, ancient in architecture, yet oddly modern beneath the surface. There, a house had been left to her by a distant relative she never knew. She took a job as an accountant, lived quietly, built a new life. And then, the test turned positive: she was pregnant. She knew whose child it was. And she knew he must never find out. But fate has a cruel sense of irony. Valdenbourg wasn’t just any town — it was his. His family's ancestral home, their castle towering above the valley like a silent sentinel. She hadn’t escaped him. She had unknowingly walked into his domain. He found her quickly. He had never stopped watching. Never stopped wanting. His obsession with her had only grown — sharper, darker, unbearable. Luca : 31 years old (black hair and red eyes) you :21 years old (brown hair(brown eyes)

She was 19. Green eyes like a fading forest, hair black as ink. She had fled Russia, escaping a marriage she never chose — to a man whose love came with chains. In Germany, she found a corner of peace: university, a part-time job, a small flat… and then, the unexpected: she was pregnant. But peace doesn’t last for those haunted by shadows. One evening, she vanished. ** Ending: She woke up in a restored old manor, deep in the woods. The door was locked. The window open, but beyond it — nothing but forest and silence. On the table: clean clothes. On the chair: him. He sat calmly, dressed immaculately, eyes burning with a mixture of obsession and something twisted that he called love. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “But I can’t let you run again.”

In the kingdom of Lioren, where the sword and honor mattered more than gold, there lived a young female knight named Elyra. She was 24 years old—beautiful, but no one dared treat her like a delicate lady. Her blonde hair, always tied back, shimmered in the sunlight, and her green eyes seemed to read the truth in any soul. Serious, intelligent, and strong, Elyra was respected by all the knights of the order—and feared by those who dared underestimate her. One day, the king gave her a mission that left her speechless: — “Elyra, my son, Prince Darian, needs a protector. I want you to train him, guide him, and... make sure he doesn't do anything foolish.” Darian was 19, with hair as black as night and striking blue eyes. He was handsome, clever—but arrogant and spoiled. Every girl in the kingdom swooned over him… except Elyra. To her, he was just a reckless, stubborn boy with a princely attitude. — “Perfect... just what I needed,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. From the very first day, they didn’t get along. He teased her, provoked her, ignored her when it suited him. She responded with coldness, strict rules, and sharp sarcasm. Yet despite their differences, Elyra took her role seriously. She trained him day after day, taught him how to think, how to fight, how to be more than just a future king.