Novels by Brainwaves

Julian walked into one of Victor's cells where rogues are locked. He lit a match with trembling fingers. The cell’s dampness swallowed the flame, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Billy sat chained to the iron ring sunk into the floor, his eyes wild, yellow-tinged. The wolf in him had surfaced days ago but refused to retreat now."You're not going to hold him long like this," one of the guards muttered from behind Julian. "He’s chewing through the silver like it’s bone."Julian didn’t respond.He crouched, his voice soft, almost paternal. "Billy. You remember me, don't you?"Billy's eyes fluttered—momentary lucidity shining through madness. His lips curled back."You smell like guilt," the rogue rasped.Julian didn’t flinch. He removed the small flask from his coat. A single drop of wolfsbane into the tin bowl. The smell hit Billy like a brick—he gagged, snarling, but didn’t look away."Tell me what Victor's doing," Julian said. "Tell me what you saw under the Bleeding Moo

The house felt too still when she returned.She left the door ajar behind her... as if she didn’t want to sever the line to the woods. As if some feral part of her expected the trees to follow her home.The scent of wood smoke lingered low in the air, but it couldn’t drown out what clung to her skin: earth, sap, and something more metallic. Like copper. Like blood that wasn’t hers.Her grandmother stood at the stove, humming softly. Pancakes sizzled in the pan, butter and syrup turning to gold in the heat. A picture of comfort. Of safety.And yet...Emilia’s hands trembled as she reached for a glass of water. The trembling didn’t stop. Not even when she pressed her lips to the rim and drank until her stomach twisted.“I heard you out back earlier,” her grandmother said without turning. “With Asher?”Emilia’s gaze dragged toward her slowly. “Yeah. He’s teaching me... things.”The words felt too thin for what she meant. Asher wasn’t just teaching her how to fight or track. He was peelin

The forest held its breath that morning.Sunlight laced through the trees in slow, broken ribbons. Emilia stood barefoot in the wet grass behind the farmhouse, the cold biting into her toes, but she didn’t move. Her pulse ticked at her throat, not from cold, but from the echo of something deeper.A howl.Not from outside. Not now.From her dream.Low and mournful. It had crawled down her spine, pulling her toward something she couldn’t name. The voice was so clear it felt like it had come from within her skull, not her ears. A warning… or a call.She blinked hard, rubbed at the back of her neck.“Asher?” she whispered into the trees.But he was already there, leaning against a moss-covered oak with arms crossed, watching her with a quiet expression that didn’t quite reach a smile.“I didn’t say we were done sleeping,” she murmured.He shrugged. “The woods don’t wait for comfort.”His voice, low and unreadable, seemed to wrap around her like fog.“I didn’t know we had plans.”“You did,

The next morning was cold and windy, Emilia woke in Asher's arms.He’d wrapped her in a blanket sometime during the night, and now she was tucked against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. For a long time, she didn’t move. Just lay there, listening. Breathing him in.Pine. Earth. Smoke. Him.She felt safe.That terrified her more than anything.“You’re awake,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair.She sat up slowly, the blanket falling away. “Barely.”“Come on,” he said, standing. “We’re training.”She groaned. “Training? Why?”Asher’s grin was lazy and sharp. “Because, I don't want you to get hurt"Her heart skipped. He said it like a tease but his eyes didn’t laugh.They trained for hours, pushing deeper into the woods this time. No phones. No roads. Just raw instinct.Asher taught her how to move like a predator. How to breathe through fear. How to feel the world around her through something deeper than her senses. A pulse in the earth. A song in the wind.“You’

Nolan and Martha arrived at the fighting club trying to blend in and not raising suspicions while they waited for their Intel but the doorman was making it hard.A man stepped in. Mid-40s. Built like a pit bull.“Martha,” he said, smirking. “Didn’t think I’d see you down here with a badge.”“I’m not here for nostalgia, Dante.”Dante’s eyes flicked to Nolan. “You trust him?”“I trust the badge. Talk.”Dante opened a metal case, pulled out a stack of photos. “You’re looking for this guy.” He tossed a picture onto the bench. “Showed up two months ago. No name. Real quiet. Real fast. Broke three jaws and a collarbone his first night. Paid in cash. Disappeared like fog.”Nolan narrowed his eyes on the photo.Julian. Younger. But unmistakable.“He’s not human,” Dante muttered, not even trying to sound sane. “I’ve seen a lot of tough bastards in that ring. But he moved like smoke. And when he smiled… he had fangs.”Martha’s gaze sharpened. “He ever mention a gang? Friends? Collegues?.... A f

The thrift store smelled like rotting garbage and old rain.Detective Nolan ducked under the sagging crime scene tape, boots crunching against cracked asphalt. He swept the parking lot with sharp eyes, every mark, every scuff cataloged without a word. Even the dust patterns didn’t escape him, patches where footprints had disturbed the grime, small places too clean for coincidence.Around the perimeter, Martha prowled in civilian clothes, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets. Her gaze flickered to the busted street-lamp by the entrance, then to the CCTV cameras....dead, black-eyed, useless. She frowned and kept moving, restless energy tightening her shoulders.Inside the store, the cashier watched her from behind the counter with the wide-eyed stillness of a trapped rabbit. She asked questions. He answered. Polite. Nervous. Too polished. By the time she stepped back outside, her mouth was a thin, angry line.Nolan glanced up as she approached."I just ran through the store's CCTV,

The night leaned in close.A hush had fallen over the parlor like silk dropped from a height. Firelight breathed golden onto the walls, licking the velvet drapes, stretching the shadows tall and watching. Jasmine stood beneath the chandelier, her back bare, spine gleaming like a blade, corset laced cruel and high.Elora’s voice trailed off behind her, murmuring instructions to one of the girls. Distant laughter spilled from the upstairs landing.....a perfume of mirth Jasmine couldn’t feel. Not tonight.Tonight, her mouth tasted of ash and wine and something else.The man had arrived just after moonrise, escorted without introduction, but Elora’s glance had lingered longer than usual....just a flick of the eyes, barely a nod. Enough to mean danger, or delight. Often both.He waited in the Velvet Room.Jasmine walked with the slow confidence of someone who owned every eye that dared touch her. But inside, there was something keening. Her thoughts flared and curled, restless as the smoke

The House of Solace, just past midnight.The hallway leading to the Velvet Room never held its breath so tightly. Silence had weight here...... pressed into the maroon wallpaper, soaked into the carpet, pooling beneath Jasmine’s bare feet like wine spilled from a cracked decanter. The further she walked, the more the air thickened, the closer the room drew her in, as if the walls themselves leaned in to watch.The brothel behind her still hummed faintly—laughter, music, a wet moan smothered by velvet cushions. But Jasmine had left all that heat and glitter behind. Here, things moved slower. Sharper.She paused at the threshold, hand resting on the doorknob of lacquered onyx. Her reflection in the polished metal caught her eye. A dark mouth. A darker gaze. No jewels tonight. No flowers pinned to her hair. Just the silk of her robe whispering open at the thighs and the confidence of a woman who knew her tongue could cut just as sweetly as it could coax.He was already waiting inside.Th

The parlor glowed with the amber hush of candlelight, each flame trembling like a secret about to be whispered. Incense slithered through the air.....honeysuckle, something muskier beneath. Velvet hung in thick folds over the tall windows, sealing the room like a memory, and the women of the House of Solace were scattered like jewels, lounging on settees and polished arms of chairs, casting laughter and lashes at whichever man they had chosen to devour.Jasmine sat apart.She wore a wine-colored slip of silk, so thin it clung to her skin like breath. Her legs were folded beneath her, and her gaze traced the rim of her glass as though reading a fortune in the shape of the red wine. She was not looking at the door when it opened, nor when he entered—but every muscle in her body knew the exact moment he stepped through.Not Roger.Not anyone she knew.He moved like winter. Slow, assessing, tall enough to command a room with posture alone. His coat was tailored black, the collar slightly

The following morning, House of Solace.The rain had stopped, but the world still dripped.Water clung to every eave and ledge, slipping down in slow, deliberate drops. The streets beyond the House of Solace shimmered with it, cobbled bones slick with the night’s memory. Morning sunlight hung behind the clouds like a ghost—present, but unwilling to touch anything too intimately. The scent of rain mixed with the warm perfume of bodies within, and Jasmine stood in the hallway feeling both too clean and too undone.She had slept poorly, if sleep was the word for it. Dreams had coiled tight around her—half-formed shapes and animal sounds, the kind that don’t sit behind your eyelids but instead crawl under your skin. At some point, she'd kicked her covers off, body flushed. She’d awoken with her fingers pressed between her thighs and her chest aching, breath caught on something she couldn’t name.And she remembered the howl.Not heard, but felt. Not part of a dream, but something deeper. L

The same night. Where dreams break skin.The moon did not rise. It arrived—like a god who no longer asked permission.It spilled through the window above Jasmine’s bed in thick sheets of silver, catching in the soft waves of her hair, gilding her throat, her collarbone, the curve of one hip slipping from beneath the quilt. Her sleep was not quiet. Not the sleep of peace. It was a sleep stretched thin by the edges of hunger. Of something coming. Something watching.Her fingers twitched first. A single, slow curl like a secret tightening around her.Then her breathing shifted—no longer soft and steady, but caught... trembling on a rhythm not her own. She lay there, half-tangled in velvet sheets that remembered the sweat of pleasure, the scent of Elora’s oils and power, her limbs splayed like she had once begged and once bitten, and neither had been enough.The House of Solace slumbered around her. Girls curled like cats in window seats. Candles guttered. Wine stains dried on lipsticked

The hallway outside Jasmine’s room moaned like an old woman, wood swelling and sighing in the heat that had not yet broken. The candle she carried burned low, its wax dribbling down her wrist like white blood, unnoticed. Her bare feet made no sound on the Persian runner, but the walls heard her. They always had.Behind her, the House of Solace softened into sleep. Velvet laughter faded into the hush of closing doors, silk whispering against skin, muffled gasps folded into pillows. The scent of pleasure still clung to the air—opium, sweat, the hot-spilled musk of men who wanted to forget. But Jasmine was wide awake.Inside her room, the mirror caught her like it always did: untamed. The red silk robe she’d thrown on hung open, careless, the shadows of her collarbones sharp enough to slice moonlight. Her curls were a storm over one shoulder. She looked like a woman who had just ruined someone’s life...... and had done it slowly.But tonight, there was no client. No hungry stare to meet