Novels by Maria Writes

Damien's POV Something changed after that moment on the plane. I don't even know what to call it. Not a kiss. Not a touch. Just—charged air and a breath held too long. But whatever it was, it carved something sharp into the quiet between us, something that lingered like heat trapped beneath skin. And I can’t stop thinking about it. Killian Reeve is a man. That much is obvious. But this… attraction? It doesn’t feel like it’s about men or women. It feels like it’s just him. And that’s not a thought I’m used to entertaining, especially not on diplomatic trips where nuclear energy and international weapons agreements are the agenda—not my libido. I straighten the cuffs of my suit as the jet begins its descent into Valeria. Through the sleek windows, the sprawling city shimmers below like molten glass. I press the thought of Killian out of my head, or try to. “You’ll meet President Roul tomorrow being Friday,” Richard says beside me, flipping through the digital itinerary on his tab

Damien's POV It had been months since I stepped foot into my private residence. The marble floors still gleamed, the art still hung precisely as I left it, and the silence—perfect. Thursday mornings were normally tight with briefings and security reports, but today… today I was home. I didn't miss the cold sterility of the official palace. But I’d grown used to it. I unbuttoned my cufflinks as I stepped into the dining area. Killian was already there—leaning casually against the far wall, arms crossed, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark eyes tracking every move I made. "Morning, Mr. Reeve," I said, barely glancing in his direction. He gave a nod. “President Voss.” No salute. No stiffness. Just that cool, calm presence that clung to him like a second skin. The cook entered, wheeling in breakfast—eggs, toast, grilled vegetables, fruit, black coffee. She poured the water and stepped back, eyes flicking to me for approval. But before I reached for anything, Killian was alrea

Killian’s POVThe room was small, dim, and quiet enough that our breaths filled the silence between shadows. Kieran tasted like whiskey and lust, and I needed both. He shoved me back onto the bed, and I let him, my mouth still clinging to his like I’d forgotten how to breathe.His tongue was possessive, his hands worse. They slid beneath my shirt, dragging across my skin like he owned it. He yanked the fabric over my head. I did the same to him. His body was solid—lean, lightly scarred, the kind that told stories without words. The kind I understood.I didn’t want his name. I didn’t want his past. I wanted friction. Sweat. A body under mine to make me forget I had one of my own.“Turn over,” I whispered.He grinned darkly, rolling onto his stomach, arching slightly. His ass was tight and perfect, framed by the dim light filtering through yellow curtains. I bit his shoulder—he hissed in pleasure—and reached down to stroke him from behind.He groaned, a low, needy sound torn from his th

Killian’s POV The next sound I heard was the click of Anna’s key in the door. She stepped in, a little flustered from a late lecture, the evening air clinging to her cardigan. She paused, her eyes lifting at the delicious scent wafting from the kitchen. Her nose twitched. “It smells delicious in here.” I smiled from the couch, pretending my thoughts weren’t storming in ten directions. “I made you a special dish.” She glanced at the covered plate on the counter and lit up. “Gosh, you are the best brother. I'm so famished.” Her bag slid from her shoulder with a thud, and she practically danced into the kitchen. I heard the clatter of her spoon against the plate as she started eating, humming her approval between bites. Just like old times—at least on the surface. After her meal, she showered. The sound of water running behind the bathroom door reminded me that she was still here, still safe, still unaware of how close the danger had come. And that wouldn't last long. She

Killian’s POV I arrived at the apartment just as dusk seeped through the windows, grocery bags in hand. The quiet ache of normalcy trailed me—bread, vegetables, Anna’s favorite pasta sauce. My mind wandered ahead, anxious about tomorrow, but nothing prepared me for the image at my door. It was left slightly open, a shard of shattered glass stuck in the frame. My heart doubled its beat. I dropped the bags—it all went soft and heavy—and drew my pistol. The tile hallway was cold under my boots as I slipped inside. Darkness. Shadows clinging to corners. I flicked the hall light on and watched dust dance. Then I saw it: a single, heavy envelope on the coffee table, bearing the Blackguard sigil—the black falcon with clasped talons—and the words TOP SECRET stamped above it. I exhaled hard, sliding down the wall into a seated crouch. My life—my choice, damn it—refused to leave me alone. I sighed hard. I already left this life. It does nothing but take more and more from you. My only

Damien's POV The morning after the explosion was a blur of fire reports, media silence, and intelligence briefings. I had barely touched my coffee when my secure line buzzed. Richard, ever punctual, passed me the encrypted receiver. “President Raoul on the line,” he said. I took the call with one hand, the other hand still holding a report smeared with ash from yesterday's chaos. “Damien,” Raoul's voice crackled through. “I’m just now hearing the full extent of the attack. Are you all right?” “I’m alive,” I replied coldly. “That’s more than I can say for the building you sent me to.” There was a pause. “We were delayed. A motorcade accident—not serious, but enough to hold us back.” “How convenient.” “I understand your suspicion, but believe me, this wasn’t from our end. Virelia had no hand in this.” “And yet, someone knew we’d be there.” “That’s why I’m calling. Our advisors agree: rescheduling is necessary. Neutral ground: Valeria City, the Arcadia Conference Dom