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Who’s It Going to Be?
Last Updated:
2024-10-03 04:00:10Aviva
Alpha Ryan shifts back to his human form, cloaked in shadows. He’s breathing heavily as he lumbers through the camp, crouching to rip into a clothing cache.
I watch his shadow in silence, my heart beating out of rhythm. I only look away when the wind parts the treetops and allows moonlight to spread over the clearing again, illuminating the hellhound lying broken and in pieces at the very edge of the tree line.
It takes two shallow breaths before it starts to fall in on itself, turning to ash that’s carried away by the wind.
I slowly turn my gaze back to Alpha Ryan who is standing now, wearing a pair of pants that don’t fit him at all, the button holding them in place undone. Moonlight ghosts over his frame. Instead of tight, wiry muscles, he’s just… huge. There’s nothing lean about him. I can see the outline of his abdominals as he turns slightly to face me. The muscles in his che
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ArisWillow is exactly the type of girl Miles, our friend from our early warrior training days, would fall for. It’s a damn shame she’s all over Roman at the moment. Miles tilts his pint of beer back and sighs, shaking his head while Roman and Willow stand at the bar across the room. Tate raises a brow, his close cropped black hair catching the dim, flickering neon lights plastered across the wall to our backs. “What?” Miles gripes, running his fingers through his dark, equally short, hair. Both men are in the Ghost forces, low ranking, low enough that taking several weeks of leave wasn’t that big of a deal. “Roman’s not interested in her, man. He’d love someone to save him right now.” Tate shrugs, hazel eyes glistening. “Just go talk to her.”Miles grumbles something incoherent and twists his empty glass in a circle. I roll my eyes to Tate, who shrugs again before sipping his beer. “She’s staying for a while, according to Roman,” Tate offers. Miles glares. “She doesn’t seem lik
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Book 17Posey“Oh, my Goddess.” Willow’s sleek dark brown hair fans around her face as she pulls her baby blue convertible to a screeching halt, the smell of burning rubber scorching my nostrils. She pushes her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and gasps as the shadow of a massive, three-story stone house from a begotten era swallows us whole, stained glass windows glaring down at us, four spires twisting to the clouds and nearly blocking the sun. “This is where we’re staying? How old is this place?”“That’s a very good question. Probably ancient. Everything this size in Veiled Valley is–” Her door slams shut. She’s already out of the car and falling into the shadow of the–well, I suppose it’s a castle. A miniature castle, probably the home of some long-dead aristocrat or Alpha that built it during the time of the original Firestone Witches. Two wings branch off the center of the structure with perfectly trimmed hedges juxtaposed against a remarkably modern and meticulously land
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