Novels by Emeraldwrites

‎Nora’s POV,‎Unknown Location...‎Pain wakes me.‎Slow.‎Thick.‎Like I’m swimming up through tar.‎My head pounds.‎My mouth is dry.‎My limbs—‎Heavy.‎Too heavy.‎I try to move.‎Metal clinks.‎My eyes snap open.‎Darkness.‎Not complete.‎Dim light flickers from somewhere above—yellow, weak, unstable.‎I blink.‎Force my vision to focus.‎Concrete walls.‎Bare.‎Cold.‎A single bulb swinging slightly from the ceiling.‎I’m sitting on a chair.‎No, strapped to it.‎Wrists bound behind me.‎Ankles tied.‎Rope.‎Tight enough to burn.‎Panic surges instantly.‎Sharp.‎Violent.‎I jerk against the restraints.‎Useless.‎“Easy.”‎The voice comes from the shadows.‎Male.‎Calm.‎Familiar in the worst way.‎My heart stutters.‎“No…” I whisper.‎A figure steps forward.‎And the world tilts.‎“Hello, Nora.”‎Lucien.‎He looks… composed.‎Untouched.‎Like he didn’t just rip me out of my life and drag me into a nightmare.‎My chest heaves.‎“You—”‎“So many questions in those eyes,” he says

‎Mikhail’s POV ‎Romanov Warehouse ... ‎The first call comes in at 18:42. ‎I ignore it. ‎Not because it isn’t important—but because everything is important right now. ‎Viktor is still a ghost. ‎Ingrid vanished like smoke. ‎Lucien’s trail is ice cold. ‎And every second they stay hidden feels like a personal insult and I'm losing my fucking mind. ‎“Aleksei,” I say, pacing in front of the wall of screens, “run the docks again. I want manifests, private shipments, anything flagged in the last—” ‎My phone rings again. ‎Same number. ‎Dmitri. ‎I pause. Aleksei notices immediately. ‎“Answer it,” he says. ‎Something in his tone shifts the air. ‎I swipe to accept it, pressing the phone to my ear. ‎“What?” ‎Silence. ‎Then— ‎“Sir… Nora is not in the estate.” ‎The words don’t land. ‎Not at first. ‎They just… hang there. ‎Meaningless. ‎“What do you mean she’s not in the estate?” My voice is calm. Too calm. ‎“We—she left earlier. Said she needed air.

‎Nora’s POV ‎I don’t sleep. ‎Not really. ‎I lie there beside Elias in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as shadows stretch and shift across it. Every creak of the house sounds like footsteps. Every passing car feels like a countdown. ‎Morning comes too fast. ‎Or maybe it never left. ‎By the time the first light bleeds through the curtains, I’ve already made up my mind. ‎I slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Elias. He needs the rest. One of us should have a clear head when we run. ‎I head to the bathroom. ‎Lock the door. ‎And stare at myself in the mirror. ‎I look… the same. ‎That’s the strange part. ‎Same face. Same eyes. Same girl. ‎But everything inside me feels rearranged. Like someone reached in and shifted all the pieces without asking. ‎I turn on the tap, splash water on my face, grip the sink. ‎Breathe. ‎Then the nausea hits. ‎Sudden. ‎Violent. ‎I barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, retching until my throa

Mikhail’s POV Romanov WarehouseAfter Caleb’s revelation to Nora, I instruct one of my men to drive her back home, though she wanted to resist, but this place was no place for any woman, well, except Ingrid of course, as she’s a fucking snake!Aleksei stands beside me, face carved from stone. He hasn’t spoken since we arrived. He doesn’t need to. We both know what this means.I finally break the silence.“She talked before she got out. Every word. Repeat it.”Aleksei exhales through his nose, voice low.“She said Viktor contacted her three years ago. Offered her a deal: help take down Maxim, split the empire, and she’d get you as the prize. She agreed. Fed him intel on operations, weaknesses. The ambush on Maxim was their first big move—paid the driver to divert the route, hired Albanian shooters to make it look like a rival hit. She said Viktor has been building alliances in exile—the Albanians, the Irish, some Italians who hate Maxim’s grip. The plan was to frame Nora, break you,

‎Nora's POV‎‎I wake up to a pounding headache, the kind that throbs behind my eyes like a drumbeat I can’t escape. The room swims into focus slowly—the massive king-sized bed with its black sheets, the high ceilings, the balcony doors letting in slivers of morning light. My body feels heavy, like I’ve been running a marathon in my sleep, and as I shift, the memories flood back: the confrontation at the hospital, Elena’s tears, Caleb’s face when Mikhail revealed the truth about him being Lucien’s son, the way everything shattered in that moment. I remember backing away from Caleb, the betrayal hitting me like a physical blow, and then the world tilting, darkness swallowing me whole.‎I sit up slowly, propping myself on my elbows, and that’s when I see him—Elias, sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looks dejected, defeated, like the weight of the world has crushed him. His hair is messy, eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep or both. H

‎Nora’s POV‎‎I wake up alone again.He hadn't come home last night.‎The bed feels too big without him in it, the black sheets cold where his body should be. Sunlight cuts through the blinds in sharp white lines, turning the room into a cage of light and shadow. ‎I sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around me like armor. Yesterday's events all come crashing down on me—the date, down to finding out Ingrid had escaped, to which I had no idea he had her . God, I feel so...used, and dumb, like I'm just being kept in the dark like a child. Tossing the sheets away, I stand up and head into the bathroom.‎The roses downstairs are starting to wilt, petals dropping like accusations. Everything he gives me feels like a leash disguised as a gift.‎I shower fast, scalding water pounding my skin, trying to wash him off. It doesn’t work. His scent is in the shampoo, the soap, the towels—cedar and smoke and him. I step out, wrap myself in one of his shirts (too big, sleeves falling past my hands) a

♣️ Dystopian Feelings.‎Something is wrong with me.‎If there was one thing I disliked more than inefficiency, it was unpredictability.‎And yet, ‎I found myself arriving at brunch ten minutes early.‎I never arrived early.‎I stepped out of the car, handing my keys to the valet without a second glance before walking into the restaurant.‎It was one of Sofia’s favorites. Minimalist, expensive, and filled with people who pretended not to stare while doing exactly that.‎I didn’t notice them.‎I was still thinking about him.‎That in itself was a problem.‎“Isabella.”‎I looked up.‎Sofia was already seated, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of wine in hand despite the time of day.‎Her red hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the light like fire. She looked effortless, composed, dangerous in a way that matched me but expressed itself differently.‎Where I was quiet—‎Sofia was not.‎“You’re late,” she said, raising a brow.‎“I’m early.”‎She checked her watch.‎Th

The Woman They Fear♣️‎♣️ ISABELLA'S POV‎‎I don’t sleep much.‎Not because I can’t.‎Because I don’t need to.‎The city stretched beneath me in a quiet glow, California alive even in the early hours of the morning. Lights flickered in the distance, cars moving like slow streams of gold across the highway. From up here, everything looked small.‎Manageable.‎I lifted the glass to my lips, taking a slow sip of red wine as I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of my bedroom.‎White silk brushed against my skin, my robe loosely tied, barely clinging to my frame. The air was cool, but I didn’t feel it. I rarely felt anything I didn’t choose to.‎My phone buzzed against the glass table behind me.‎I didn’t turn immediately.‎I already knew who it was.‎It rang again.‎Persistent.‎I sighed softly, placing the wine down before walking over, picking it up on the third ring.‎“Uncle.”‎“You didn’t call.”‎Straight to the point.‎Always.‎I moved back toward the window, resting my hip lightl

The Woman He Built ‎🖤♣️ ‎The tarp lifted, and the world returned in a flood of light.‎Isabella blinked once, adjusting, her pupils shrinking against the brightness. The man standing over her did not move like the others. He did not startle. He did not shout.‎He simply looked.‎Mateo Reyes.‎She recognized him immediately. Not because she had seen him often, but because she had been trained to remember faces that mattered. Her father had shown her photographs once. Not with affection, but with purpose.‎“If anything ever happens, you find him.”‎Now she had.‎Mateo’s gaze was steady, heavy, assessing. His face carried the same bones as her father’s, but age and experience had carved deeper lines into it. Where her father had looked controlled, Mateo looked hardened. Less restrained. More dangerous.‎“You got on my boat,” he said.‎His tone was not angry. It was factual.‎Isabella pushed herself up from beneath the tarp, dust clinging to her dress. She stood in front of him, small

🖤♣️The Collapse🖤♣️‎“Isabella, put away your Barbie dolls and come to the dinner table.”‎Her mother’s voice floated through the wide halls of the mansion—warm, steady, familiar.‎Seven-year-old Isabella Marisol Reyes sat cross-legged on the polished marble floor, her dolls arranged in careful, deliberate rows. Not scattered. Never scattered. Even at her age, there was order in everything she did.‎She tilted her head slightly, studying them.‎One doll sat apart from the others.‎“Not you,” she murmured, adjusting it with quiet precision. “You don’t belong there.”‎Her small fingers moved with surprising certainty, placing each figure exactly where she wanted them. A game, to anyone else. But to Isabella, it was something else—control. Structure. A world where nothing happened unless she allowed it.‎“Isabella,” her mother called again, a little firmer this time, though still gentle. “Now.”‎She sighed softly, the sound far too measured for a child her

‎Elara’s POV.‎The palace changes the instant Lyriel says the name.‎One moment the corridors are quiet, dim violet light and distant echoes.‎The next, alarms ring through the stone like screaming bells—deep, bone-rattling chimes that make the moonflowers wilt and Sael’s fur bristle with real flame.‎Guards pour from every archway, wings and claws and blades flashing.‎Lockdown.‎The word ripples through the air like a command.‎Lyriel grabs my wrist, wings flaring wide.‎“We have to move. Now.”‎We run.‎Sael races ahead, yipping warnings at corners.‎Behind us, the shadows on the walls twist and stretch, reaching.‎I feel them—cold fingers brushing the back of my neck.‎We burst into my chambers.‎Lyriel slams the door and presses both palms to it.‎Runes flare silver across the wood, sealing it.‎She leans there, breathing hard.‎“He’s inside,” she whispers. “Kael is inside the palace.”‎My blood turns to ice.‎“How?”‎“Impossible,” she says, voice shaking. “Draven wove barriers c

Defiant Shadows.Draven.The night after the walkI stand in the courtyard long after she disappears inside.The false stars above me pulse like they’re mocking my heartbeat.I told her to go to her chambers before I did something we would both regret.I lied.The regret is already here, gnawing at the edges of everything I thought I had buried.She laughed at dinner.Not the polite, hollow sound the court makes. A real laugh —short, surprised, bright as a blade.It caught me off guard so completely I nearly dropped my glass.I have not heard anyone laugh like that in centuries.I hate her for it.I hate myself more for noticing.I finally force my feet to move.The corridors are empty, silver torches flickering low. My boots echo too loud. Shadows trail me like obedient hounds.Except one.One shadow lingers at the corner where her corridor branches off, stretching longer than it should, darker than the rest.I stop.It does not.I narrow my eyes.“Return,” I command.The shadow quiv

‎The Long Table ‎Elara ‎The evening after the court confrontation‎Lyriel leads me back to the chambers she prepared earlier —the ones with the starlit bath and midnight silk bed. Sael, the fox cub, trots at my heels, yipping every time his tiny paws slip on the polished obsidian floor.‎The door shuts behind us.‎I lean against it and finally let my knees shake.‎Lyriel watches me with those fractured-glass eyes, wings folded tight.‎“You were magnificent,” she says quietly. “Reckless. But magnificent.”‎I laugh, it comes out brittle.‎“Magnificent gets me threatened with ruin and ashes.”‎She tilts her head. “It also gets you noticed. The court has not been this alive in centuries.”‎Before I can answer, lightning crackles in the air.‎Mireth materializes in the middle of the room, hair wilder than before, smelling of ozone and satisfaction.‎“My ferocious girl!” she crows, sweeping me into a hug that smells like rain on hot stone. “The entire kingdom is talking about you. You cal

Damned Traditions.Elara—I wake to lightning and fresh bread.The door is wide open. Violet dawn spills across moonflowers that weren’t there when I fell asleep. A woman stands in the doorway balancing a silver tray like she’s about to declare war with pastries.Tall, wild silver-black hair crackling, eyes like colliding galaxies, gown made of living stormclouds.“Good morning, my ferocious little star!” she sings. “I am Mireth, queen of this gloomy pile, and your new mother whether you like it or not. Eat before you faint and ruin my plans.”I sit up slowly. “You’re the queen?”“Guilty. Also part-time goddess of minor chaos. Sit. Eat. Tell me how you made moonflowers grow in a tomb.”She notices the bruises on my wrists.Lightning snaps across her knuckles.“Who chained you?” she asks, voice suddenly soft and deadly.“Everyone,” I answer.“Names,” she says. “I collect them for kindling.”I spill everything —throne room, blood ritual, my father’s new title, Seraphine’s engagement, t

CAGED.Draven’s POVI have done this ninety-nine times.Ninety-nine cages rolled through my gates.Ninety-nine trembling girls in white.Ninety-nine times I have looked at them and seen Aveline’s ghost wearing a new face.Tonight is the hundredth.And I am already breaking.I stand on the balcony of the west wing, claws digging into obsidian stone hard enough to leave grooves. Below, the procession winds through the outer courtyard like a funeral made of moonlight. The cage-wagon is beautiful (black iron gilded to hide the bars). The girl inside is a blade of ivory and silver fury.I watched her arrive.I watched her lift her chin and tell me to kill her quickly.I laughed —gods help me, I laughed because no one has ever looked at me like that. Not in a thousand years.Not since Aveline begged me to run with her instead.I sent the girl to the worst room because I am a coward.The west wing is a ruin (walls cracked from the last time Kael and I tried to murder each other, windows shat

Chapter 8Kingdom Of Eldoria ElaraNine days.Nine days in a stone box beneath Highmont Palace where the only light is a torch that never quite reaches the corners.Nine days of chains that burn cold, of water that tastes of rust, of bread hard enough to break teeth.Nine days of silence so complete I start talking to the black scale just to remember my own voice.It answers, sometimes.Not in words. In heat. In pressure against my ribs like a second heart trying to crawl out.I keep replaying the throne room.Every face. Every cheer. Every lie.Most of all, I replay my family.Father’s voice, ringing false: My daughter volunteers herself…Mother’s perfect tears that never smudged her paint.Seraphine’s sapphire tiara already gleaming in her hair like she was born to wear it.Isla whispering my name until the doors shut.On the fourth day a guard shoves a broadsheet under the cell door.I unroll it with shaking fingers.The headline is in letters an inch tall:GENERAL WYNNE APPOINTE