Novels by Jhumie_writes

Lucien entered without knocking. without announcement.The doors to the old council room were built to intimidate, dark oak, twice the width of a man, but they swung open on his push, groaning across marble. The room beyond smelled of stale cigar smoke and the faint, iron tang of old blood sunk deep into wood grain.Sunlight poured through tall, dust frosted windows, slicing the space into bands of light and shadow. It illuminated the long mahogany table in the center, the polished surface gleaming like still water.Eight men sat there. Waiting. Watching.He knew every man here. Knew their debts, their grudges, their ambitions. Knew which ones were willing to slit a throat for coin, and which ones would slit it just to feel the warm rush between their fingers.Julio moved in behind Lucien and took his place at the wall just over his right shoulder, silent, solid, the way a right hand should be. He never sat. Never relaxed. His presence was a quiet reminder that Lucien didn’t walk into

He’d been watching her breathe for over an hour.The morning light crept in slow, casting pale gold across the curve of her shoulder. She lay with her back to him, still, silent. Awake. He could feel it. The kind of stillness that wasn’t rest, but restraint.Lucien didn’t speak at first. He didn’t know how.So much time had passed between them in silence that now, even his words felt like they might bruise her.He tried anyway.“You’re up early.”There was a pause before she answered. “Didn’t sleep much.”A beat passed.“I noticed.”Another silence. One she didn’t try to fill.He stared at the ceiling. Then turned his gaze to her, wishing she’d turn, too. Wishing she’d just… meet him halfway.“Emilia,” he said, voice low. “I haven’t really check up on you.”She rolled onto her back, finally looking at him. Her eyes were tired, unreadable.“You haven’t.”The honesty hit harder than any accusation would have.“I’m here now,” he said quietly.She sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest, a

He didn’t announce his return.No one expected him back until nightfall, but the meeting had ended early, and the drive home was quiet,?too quiet. His mind, usually sharp and relentless, had dulled to static somewhere between the third call from Julio and the final bullet he’d pulled from a traitor’s shoulder.He was tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could cure. The kind that lived in the bones. That came from carrying too much, for too long, and refusing to drop any of it.The front door opened with a soft groan. No one met him. No one rushed to inform the house.Good. He didn’t want fanfare.He wanted…He paused. Laughter.Faint, light, echoing through the corridor from the back of the house.Not many people laughed here. Not truly.He followed the sound like a scent, silent through the halls, past the west study, past the stillness of the dining room.The back door was cracked open.Through it, the training yard came into view.And so did she.Emilia.Hair tied up. Shirt clinging

The gun felt heavier in her hands than she remembered.Lucien had taught her but she wasn't that steady yet, quiet mornings in private ranges, his hands over hers, his voice low and calm as he corrected her aim. Back then, it felt intimate. Like a bond built in the fire of survival.Now, it just felt like another thing she wasn’t good at.“Relax your shoulders,” Matteo said gently. “You’re bracing like it’s going to kick you across the yard.”“It might,” she muttered.He didn’t laugh. Just stepped closer, not too close, and adjusted the angle of her arms without touching her. “Try again.”Emilia took a breath, aligned the sights, and fired.The bullet hit just shy of the target’s edge.She sighed. “This is pointless.”“It’s not,” Matteo said calmly. “That was better than your last five.”“Which were all trash.”“Which were all learning.” He walked past her, reset the target with practiced ease, and returned with a bottle of water. “No one gets good in a day.”She took the bottle witho

The house didn’t feel like a home anymore. It never really had, but there was a time it had held the illusion of one, a place where silence could be restful and not suffocating, where the air didn’t always taste like secrets.Now it felt like a waiting room for something that hadn’t yet broken.Emilia wandered into the back garden after breakfast, more out of habit than desire. The sky was overcast. A gentle breeze moved through the roses lining the marble railing, and somewhere beyond the tall hedges, she could hear the low hum of the estate’s security detail moving in their quiet rhythm.She wasn’t supposed to be alone out here.Which meant, of course, that she wasn’t.She heard the soft crunch of gravel behind her before she turned.Matteo.He was dressed casually today, well, casual for a soldier: a dark grey shirt rolled up at the sleeves, black slacks, gun holstered, always near but never loud. He stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets.“I figured you might want some air,

The house was never quiet in the way peace should be. It was quiet in the way hospitals are, where the air hangs thick with what can’t be said. In the way a church feels after the funeral is over and all the mourners have gone home.It had weight, this kind of silence.Heavy. Grieving. Watching.Emilia stood at the top of the stairs, one hand resting on the polished banister, watching the foyer below as another of Lucien’s men stepped out the front door. The security rotation had changed again, third time this week. New guards. New faces. No one told her why.She wasn’t afraid of them.She was afraid of what they weren’t saying.Downstairs, hushed voices floated between corridors like smoke. They always stopped when she passed.At first, she told herself it was paranoia. That months of being watched, protected like glass and left like clutter, had finally warped her instincts. That this was just the way Lucien’s world worked, secrets, silence, movements behind closed doors.But the fe

The neighborhood was quiet, the sun dipping low behind cracked rooftops and faded fences. The kind of place where hope came to die a slow, gray death. I parked the car a few blocks away and crept forward, eyes sharp, heart steady but burning with cold rage.Silas Hayes’ house sat at the end of a narrow street, a ramshackle relic squeezed between newer, better kept homes. The windows were dust covered and cracked. The paint peeled like dead skin. A rusted gate hung from one hinge. No flowers. No laughter. Just shadows.I studied it from the street. This was the kind of place where promises went to rot. Where secrets got buried under layers of neglect.I stepped closer, boots crunching on broken glass and dry leaves. The door was cracked, just a sliver open, like a wound waiting for me to enter.Inside, the air was thick with dust and stale smoke. The faintest scent of decay clung to the walls. I moved carefully, stepping over torn newspapers, broken chairs, and empty bottles. The silen

The car’s engine was a low hum beneath the quiet of the street, the soft dusk settling like a shroud over the neat houses lined with trimmed lawns and flowering shrubs. I sat behind the wheel, the leather cool under my fingers, eyes fixed on the modest house across the street, white picket fence, flower boxes under the windows, a small porch swing where a child’s jacket hung limp.Marisol Vega’s home.I had read everything I could find about her. The old files painted a stark, ruthless picture, a woman who once moved in the shadows of Robert’s empire, involved in whispers I couldn’t yet confirm, someone who might have played a part in the erasure of my father’s name. But here, under this softening light, the woman I saw was different.Through the large living room window, I watched her move with easy grace, carrying a toddler in one arm, laughing as she handed a plate of food to another child at the table. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, the wrinkles near her eyes softened b

The ride from the station to the safehouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums until it feels like a weight. I didn’t bother turning on the radio. The city outside the tinted glass was all smudged lights and thin, restless fog. It didn’t matter. My mind wasn’t here.The moment the car stopped, I stepped out, my boots crunching against the gravel drive. The safehouse looked exactly as I’d left it, plain, shadowed, forgettable. The kind of building no one would remember passing. That was the point. I had bought this building in a different name. I punched in the code, pushed the heavy door open, and was met with stale air. The place always smelled like paper and metal, old documents, gun oil, cold steel.Inside, I didn’t take off my coat. I went straight to the desk. The only light came from the desk lamp, a harsh yellow pool that barely reached the corners of the room. My laptop sat there, waiting.I switched it on, the familiar hum filling the air. While i

The morning came too early.I lay there, eyes still closed, not wanting to leave the one small pocket of safety I’d found, the space between sleep and waking, where the walls around me didn’t exist yet.But the knock shattered it.It wasn’t Victor’s knock. No… he never knock,just walked in always. This knock was softer, hesitant, followed by the rustle of fabric and the creak of the door opening just far enough for someone to slip inside.I pushed myself up, the blanket falling to my lap.A young servant, a girl I’d seen before but never heard speak, came in carrying something that seemed out of place here. A tall, glass vase overflowing with blooms.White roses. Deep crimson peonies. Sprigs of eucalyptus.They looked like they belonged on a wedding table. Or in a lover’s arms.She crossed the room quickly, set the vase on my desk, and without meeting my eyes, left. No explanation. No note. Just the scent, already unfurling into the air, filling every corner of my room.I sat there f

The house was alive.Not in the restless way of an estate where footsteps echoed like warnings, but alive with the sound of voices, overlapping, tumbling, carrying laughter like the clink of glasses. The scent of roasted meat and herbs hung thick in the air, drawing me toward the long dining table set in the center of the wide room. It wasn’t polished to perfection. There were smudges of fingerprints on the wood, rings from mugs that had sweated in the heat. It was… lived in.I took my seat near the far end, the spot they’d given me as though they were careful not to overwhelm me. Plates and bowls passed hand to hand, no servants here, just people serving each other.“Aunt June, remember the time you tried to make jam and burned the kitchen?” one of the younger cousins teased, a boy with unruly hair and dimples so deep they looked like they’d been carved there on purpose.“I did no such thing,” june said, eyes narrowing even as a smile threatened the corner of her mouth. “It was the s

The door clicked softly behind me, closing out dinner and leaving only the hum of the house settling into evening. I didn’t stay downstairs longer than necessary, and here in my room, I breathed a slow, ragged sigh. I tried not to think about hair I wore or how I’d held my fork. I tried not to think about how Victor had watched me all evening, like I was both prize and puzzle.The silence felt too loud.I told myself it was nothing. Just relief that the meal was over. Relief i am out of that animal gaze. But my fingers trembled as I unbuttoned the cuff of my dress, loosening the fabric I’d chosen. The black dress I deliberately worn to provoke him. I slipped into something looser, plain sleepwear, soft cotton, and slid under the covers, heart still roaring. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for my pulse to slow.It never did.The knock didn’t come.Of course it didn’t.Victor never knocked.My stomach clenched. I sat up in bed, breath caught in my throat. My hand trembled against the