Novels by rouge

IngridHe slows again.Teasing. Testing. Torturing me with every calculated inch of space he doesn’t cross.His breath is fire against my ear, but his body never fully touches mine. Just the edge of his palm at my waist—possessive, idle, cruel.“You like that?” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling into my spine.My body says yes. My lips stay sealed.He knows. Bastard knows.Every nerve in me is screaming for more, and he gives nothing but the weight of want.I’m burning from the inside out. And the worst part? He isn’t even inside me—in heart, but who knows what this is. He’s just present—dominant, devouring, deliberate.“You want me to stop?” he whispers. His mouth is brushing the skin of my neck now, like a kiss he hasn't earned.“No.” My voice is breathy, traitorous.“Say it louder.”I clench my fists at my sides. I should slap him. I should spit in his face.Instead, I shiver.“No,” I say again. Louder. Shamefully desperate.He pulls back just enough to make me feel the distance.

Jace“What?”Motherfucking bastard. What do you mean what? I almost ask aloud to my question, but bite it back. Silence eats at us again—but this time, it doesn’t gnaw. It sits with us, like it belongs.I remember when she was six and I was ten.Our relationship wasn’t exactly dynamic. Especially not when my foster parents introduced me to Ingrid for the first time.She was naive—thought having a big brother like me would make everything better.And me? I just stood there. Watching.She lowers her gaze now, setting the towel aside after tending to her own wounds. Her eyes soften for a moment, like something inside her unknots.Would it be too late for me to change?Does she still see me as a monster?No.It’s not empathy that stirs in me.It’s not familial, either—not some noble Grey-line bond.I’m apologetic, sure. But not entirely.Because keeping her close is doing something else to me.Something primal.She makes me insatiable.I don’t just want to protect her—I want to possess he

IngridWe arrived at the Grey Cabin—and every man there looked at me like I was a threat. Or worse, prey.Their eyes didn’t blink, their jaws locked, postures rigid like they’d been waiting for a kill order that never came. It reminded me of some ancient Spartan ritual—men cloaked in firelight, circling a bonfire to burn a deer alive. And this time, I was the deer.I reached for Rick’s shirt, gripping the hem like a child clinging to the last thread of safety. He walked ahead of me, paving a path through the pack of predators. Matt stayed by my side like a quiet shield, not saying a word.I turned my head slightly, glancing at the rest of the men—Jace’s remaining army.My stomach dropped.There were about fifty of them. Fifty men sent out into the forest because I ran. Because I dared to break his grip.I swallowed the knot rising in my throat.Dear God, I feel like I was a sacrificial lamb in my past life. I remember a quote from Albert Camus: Live to the point of tears. But Goddamn

RickI was frozen when the notification came in: Ingrid escaped.Not a whisper of hesitation. No fear. Just pure defiance wrapped in desperate speed. She bolted from the lair of wolves like it wasn’t soaked in blood and secrets. Like the world outside didn’t want her dead just as much as the one she was running from.She ran.Like Jace Grey wouldn’t find her. Like his reach didn’t spread like wildfire.But I’ve seen Jace unhinged—and if there’s one truth I’ll never unlearn, it’s this: he doesn’t lose well.I was halfway to my bike when I caught his voice barking out to Matt—fast, sharp, panicked. Something about Ingrid being asthmatic. That she’d never last a full run. That she was born with lungs built like glass.Weird.I’ve known her for years. Watched her tear through dance floors, spar in underground rings, chug drinks like liquid fire. Never once did she look like someone who could break on impact.But I guess pain’s funny like that.It stays buried—until it doesn’t.And people

IngridPain is the only thing I recognize.Not a thought. Not a face. Just pain.My shoulder is shredded raw from the gunshot he planted in me. Jace Grey—he pulled the trigger without flinching. I didn’t think he’d do it. Not really. But he did. And here I am, stitched together by someone else’s hand, left to bleed in his empire of silence.My body trembles. My thoughts come in static. But one thing is sharp, razor-clear:I’m going to survive this. Just long enough to bury him.Jace Grey will die.And I will be the one to end him.But survival isn’t passive. It requires calculation, endurance, patience. I’m not strong enough yet. There’s no revenge for the weak. And right now? I’m still crawling.I push myself up. My vision sways, a sick wave of dizziness crashing into my skull.There’s food beside me—lukewarm, untouched. I eat like I’ve been starved for years. No shame. No manners. Just instinct. I’ll need the energy.I scan the room. The walls are made of expensive timber—polished,

DamonThe news spreads like poison.Senator Bishop’s only daughter—Ingrid Bishop—missing for days. Headlines everywhere. Breaking news. National panic.To the world, she’s a golden girl: graceful, refined, raised in polished corridors and political legacy.To me? She’s a fucking nuisance dressed in diamonds.My classmate. My childhood shadow. My supposed fiancée.The investigation devours everything around her—every friend, every movement, every inch of her picture-perfect life. Nothing is sacred. Not even us.Especially not me.I was the last person to see her alive.Well—me and Rosetta.And yet I’m not shaken. I should be. But I’m not. Because something about this feels planned. Or convenient.Ingrid Bishop doesn’t just disappear. She’s reckless, not stupid. Calculating, not careless. Her silence doesn’t read like fear. It reads like defiance.Or bait.“She’s a fucking ticking bomb,” I murmur to myself, rubbing the bridge of my nose.“How are you feeling?” Rosetta’s voice slithers i