Novels by Riyahsecret

Mordred's PoV:I stayed in the shadows across the street from the cinema, hood pulled low, hands buried deep in my jacket pockets against the December chill. The marquee lights cast everything in that sickly red-and-gold glow, turning the sidewalk into some cheap stage set. I hadn’t planned on following Kianna and Lysander. I’d just… ended up here. After seeing her look so broken at school all day, I told myself I was checking on her. Making sure she was okay. That’s all.But when they came out laughing—actually laughing—after whatever dumb movie Lysander had dragged her to, something twisted hard in my chest. She needed comfort, and it wasn’t me giving it to her. It was him, the pretty-boy art kid with his perfect hair and easy smile, always hovering like he was some kind of guardian angel.Then Maddox showed up.I pressed myself flatter against the brick wall of the closed bookstore,breath fogging in the cold. Maddox looked like hell, the type I was always begging to see him ther

Kianna's Pov:I sat cross-legged on my dorm bed, knees pulled to my chest, phone clutched so tightly in my hand that my knuckles had gone white. The screen was dark now, but the images were burned into my mind: Maddox’s laughing face lit by the glow of someone else’s phone, Emily stumbling, tears mixing with spilled beer, his friends jeering in the background. The caption—“Beating your enemy at his own game”—felt like it was aimed straight at me.I’d scrolled past it the first time, thinking it was just another rumor. Then I watched the videos three times going on the Fourth. Each replay made my stomach twist harder until I had to drop the phone and press my palms to my eyes to stop the room from spinning.How could I have been so stupid?All those weeks of him being sweet—bringing me coffee exactly how I liked it, helping me to heal, texting good-night like clockwork—had felt real. He’d looked me in the eyes and sworn he’d changed, that the old Maddox was gone. And I’d believed

Maddox's PoV:I woke up to my phone buzzing like a goddamn hornet's nest, notifications piling up faster than I could swipe them away. Groggy from last night's hangover—yeah, I'd partied a bit too hard at that shithole apartment with the guys. I grabbed the phone off the nightstand, expecting the usual crap: likes on my latest gym selfie, flirty DMs from underclassmen, maybe a text from Kianna saying good morning. But no, the screen was flooded with tags, mentions, and shares from the school forum app. "What the fuck?" I muttered, sitting up in bed, the sheets tangling around my legs.I opened the app, and there it was: a post from some anonymous profile called ‘ShadowExpose’. And under it were videos of me at the Millwood Apartments last night, hanging with my crew—Jake, Tyler and the usual suspects. We were messing around with that nerdy chick, Emily, the one who's always got her nose in a book. She looked rough, yeah—sick from whatever flu was going around, or maybe just ligh

Mordred's PoV:I slumped deeper into the worn-out armchair in my dimly lit living room, the fabric frayed at the edges from years of neglect, much like everything else in this godforsaken apartment. The bottle of cheap whiskey—some off-brand rotgut I'd picked up from the corner store on my way home, clutched in my hand like a reluctant lifeline. The amber liquid sloshed gently as I raised it to my lips, the sharp burn sliding down my throat, searing away the edges of the day's humiliation. But it couldn't erase the memory. No, that played on an endless, torturous loop in my mind: Kianna’s warnings, the eyes that watched us fight like cats and dogs, the smugness on some of their faces and Kianna's last glare at me before walking away with Lesley. And it was all the bastard's fault, if he hadn't interfered in our life, if he'd leave us the fuck alone..none of it would've happened.I took another swig, wincing at the fire that spread through my chest, but welcoming the haze it broug

Kianna's PoV:I barely made it to the girls’ bathroom before the dam broke again.The door slammed behind me, echoing off the tiles like a gunshot. I stumbled into the furthest stall, locked it, and slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold floor, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them as if I could physically hold myself together. The sobs came in waves, ugly and unstoppable, ripping out of me until my throat burned and my ribs ached.Why is it so hard to just be normal? Why does every time I think I’m safe, the ground opens up and swallows me whole?Mordred’s face in the cafeteria flashed behind my eyes: rage turning to shock when I accused him of stalking me. The way his fist had frozen mid-air. The hurt that flickered across his features before he shut it down. Even though I'm trying my best to deny it, the thought of losing him still haunts me to this day.Every damn time I see his face, something in me just awakens. I can still recall all the precious mo

Mordred's PoV:The safe house felt like a tomb that night—cold and empty with the kind of silence that presses in on you until it hurts to breathe. I paced the living room like a caged animal, boots scuffing the hardwood and the echo mocking me with every step. The lights were off, but the city glow seeped through the blinds in sickly stripes, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls. I couldn't sit. Couldn't think straight. All I could do was to replay the scene at Pearl Street over and over, a nightmare loop that clawed at my insides.Kianna, my Kianna—bursting through that door, her face crumbling like I'd taken a hammer to her heart.The tears in her eyes, the way her voice broke on “it's over”. Like all the moments we'd shared—the rooftop kisses under starlight, the way she'd laugh when I'd burn breakfast trying to impress her, the nights she'd trace my scars with her fingers like they were maps to my soul, meant nothing. Like I was just another asshole in a

LOVIA’S POV:The VIP lounge at Eclipse felt like a velvet-lined trap: low amber lighting, leather booths that swallowed sound, the faint pulse of jazz curling around cigar smoke and expensive perfume. I sat in the corner booth with my back to the wall, legs crossed, martini glass cradled loosely in one manicured hand. Evelyn Pierce—blonde wig flawless, pearls glowing against my throat, black dress cut just low enough to distract without screaming desperation. The perfect mask.They arrived separately, like cautious animals testing the water.Nadia first. Tall, raven-haired, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The red dress clung to her like a warning. She slid in across from me, diamond choker flashing as she leaned forward. “Ms. Pierce. Thank you for coming.”“Evelyn, please,” I said, voice smooth, cultured. “And thank you for the invitation. I’m always interested when powerful people want to rewrite the rules.”Marcus Hale next—mid-sixties, silver hair slicked back, bespoke sui

LOVIA’S POV The loft still hummed with the aftermath of our night—sweat-slicked sheets tangled on the bed, the faint scent of sex lingering in every corner like a secret we couldn’t erase. Shane dozed beside me, his arm thrown possessively over my waist, chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that always grounded me after chaos. But peace was a lie in our world. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the unknown number flashing like a warning. I slipped out from under his arm, careful not to wake him, and padded to the bathroom, closing the door softly before answering.“Evelyn Pierce,” I said, my voice pitched higher, softer—the polished accent of the socialite disguise I’d worn to the gala. No one knew Lovia and Evelyn were one and the same. Not yet.A woman’s voice came through, husky and cautious, with a faint Eastern European lilt. “Ms. Pierce? This is Nadia. We met at the gala—briefly. You were... intriguing.”I leaned against the sink, staring at my reflection: mussed

LOVIA’S POV :The drive back from the warehouse was a blur of neon lights and throbbing veins. Shane’s hand never left my thigh, fingers digging in like he owned every inch of skin…and he did. The SUV hummed beneath us, engine purring like a beast barely leashed, but the real storm brewed inside. Adrenaline crashed through me, hot and electric, mixing with the metallic tang of blood on my gloves and the faint smoke clinging to our clothes. We’d hit them hard, left bodies cooling and flames roaring. Alejandro’s text: “You’re dead. Both of you.“ still lit up Shane’s phone on the dash, a promise we’d turn back on him tenfold.But right now? War could wait. Victory tasted like hunger.Shane pulled into the underground garage of our loft, tires squealing softly on concrete. He killed the engine, and for a beat, we sat in silence, breaths syncing, the air thick with unspoken need. His eyes met mine in the dim glow of the dashboard—dark, feral, promising everything.“Inside,” he growled

ALEJANDRO’S poVThe penthouse reeked of stale cigar smoke and the faint, metallic tang of blood from last week's interrogation. I paced the marble floors like a caged lion, my phone clenched in my fist so tight the screen might crack. The city sprawled below me through the floor-to-ceiling windows—New York, my kingdom, glittering like a whore dressed in diamonds. But tonight, it mocked me. Everything mocked me.That bitch Lovia and her lapdog Shane. They thought they could hit my warehouse, slaughter my men, and send me pictures like some amateur taunt? I stared at the screen again, the images burned into my retinas: bodies twisted in pools of their own blood, YBA tattoos smeared crimson, and that final shot—boots in the gore, feminine legs spattered with red. Hers. Had to be. The fire in the background, my product going up in flames. Millions torched. And the message: “Your men are dead. Your product is ash. Next time it’s you.“I hurled the phone across the room. It smashed ag

LOVIA’S POV:The night tasted like rust and gasoline.We moved through the industrial district like ghosts, two shadows stitched together by moonlight and bad intentions. Shane drove the matte-black SUV with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh, thumb stroking the seam of my tactical pants like he needed the reminder that I was still breathing and still his.I wore black from throat to boots: fitted cargo pants, a cropped tactical vest that left my midriff bare because I liked the way the cold bit my skin and kept me sharp, and a holster strapped low on each thigh. My hair was braided tight against my skull, nothing for anyone to grab. Shane looked like death’s favorite son: black hoodie pulled up, gloves, the lower half of his face wrapped in a matte balaclava that only left his eyes visible, cold, arctic and lethal.We killed the headlights two blocks out and coasted the rest of the way on momentum and silence. The warehouse squatted ahead of us, ugly concrete b

The sun slanted through the blinds, casting golden bars across the tangled sheets, but the warmth couldn't chase away the chill creeping back into my bones. Shane's arm was still draped over me, his fingers idly tracing the curve of my hip, but his touch had shifted—less urgent now, more thoughtful. We lay there in the afterglow, breaths syncing, bodies spent, but minds already turning to the war we'd paused.I shifted, propping myself on one elbow to face him. His eyes met mine, lazy and satisfied, but sharpened by the unspoken. "We can't stay here forever," I murmured, my voice still husky from the cries he'd pulled from me earlier.He smirked, that infuriating half-smile that made my stomach flip. "Says who?" His hand slid up my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, sending a residual spark through me. But he didn't push further; instead, he sat up, sheets pooling around his waist, exposing the hard lines of his abs, the faint scratches I'd left on his chest.I sat u