All Chapters of Compilation Of Short Stories (Erotica): Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The stolen Wolfsbane blooms glowed like captured amethyst stars in Anya’s satchel, each pulse a traitorous beacon in the moon-drenched, ancient gloom of the Blackwater border forest. Solstice magic crackled in the humid air, a living wire brushing against her skin, potent and dangerous enough to make her teeth ache. ‘Just enough for the antidote,’she willed, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs as she scrambled over gnarled roots slick with dew, ‘then I vanish like mist.’ The fevered, desperate face of her mentor flashed behind her eyes, the only justification for this insanity. One breath. Another. She focused on the path ahead, senses straining against the oppressive silence, thick with ancient power and unseen eyes.A guttural growl ripped through the night, a sound that didn't just freeze her blood, it claimed it. Every instinct screamed predator. From the inky shadows beneath a colossal, twisted oak emerged Kael, Alpha of Blackwater. He was a mountain silhouetted against the

The first raindrop hit her cheek like a shard of ice, but the cold radiating from the shadowed archway ahead was far deeper, far more alive. Elena knew she shouldn't cut through the abandoned churchyard, knew the stories whispered about St. Lysandra's after dark, but the storm was breaking, and the shortcut home beckoned with treacherous promise. Her breath hitched, fogging the damp air, as a figure detached itself from the gloom beneath the crumbling stone arch. Not a trick of the light. Tall. Impossibly still.And his eyes, even from twenty paces, they burned with a low, hungry ember that seemed to pierce the gathering twilight and the frantic drumming of her own heart. He moved then, not with steps, but with a liquid glide that brought him before her in a breath, the scent of old rain, damp earth, and something metallic, coppery, flooding her senses. His voice, when it came, was velvet wrapped around obsidian, vibrating in her bones. "Lost, little one? The night is no place for su

The circle was drawn in Himalayan salt and crushed pomegranate seeds, the air thick with the scent of burnt honey and Ava's desperation. She wasn't praying; she was bargaining. Her knife, usually an extension of her will, felt heavy and dull in her hand. The critics' words echoed, derivative, lacking fire, safe, carved deeper wounds than any blade. Michelin stars felt like distant, dying embers. Inspiration had deserted her like a fickle lover. So, she turned to the unconventional section of her grandmother's grimoire, the one bound in suspiciously soft, warm leather. Incubus Minor: For Creative Ignition. Price: Nights of Service.Service. A deliciously ambiguous word.Ava knew exactly what kind of service was implied. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the silence. She wasn't scared. She was ravenous for the spark.She spoke the final guttural syllable.The air in her sleek, stainless-steel kitchen warped. Not with smoke or sulfur, but with a sudden, oppr

The air in the forgotten chapel tasted of dust and despair, thick enough to choke on. Moonlight, pale and unforgiving, sliced through the shattered stained glass, painting fractured saints across the cold stone floor. In the centre of that desecrated sanctity, he knelt. Cassian. Once Bishop of the Crimson Spire, now the Ashen Bishop. His fine clerical robes, centuries out of fashion, hung loose on a frame honed by predatory hunger and endless remorse. The scent of old incense clung to him, warring with the metallic tang of the blood he no longer drank. His head was bowed, not in prayer, but in the crushing weight of damnation. Then, the air shifted. Not a sound, but a presence, filling the hollow space like sunlight piercing deep water. Warmth bloomed where there had been only chill. Cassian didn't need to look up. He knew the scent of ozone and lilies, the soft radiance that preceded her. Seraphiel.Absolution walked in on silent feet, and Cassian's dead heart gave a treacherous, a

The canvas was a wasteland of his own making, a smear of failures that stretched back a decade.Julian’s knuckles were white around the neck of a cheap bottle of whiskey, the only thing in his drafty studio that held any warmth. He was thirty-eight, and the world had already forgotten his name. The critics who once lauded him as a ‘prodigy’ now used his early work as a cautionary tale about burnt-out potential. He was a ghost in his own life, haunting the periphery of an art scene that fed on fresh blood.He didn’t hear her arrive; there was no footstep, no creak of the floorboard. There was only a sudden shift in the air, a thickening of the shadows in the corner of the room that had nothing to do with the failing evening light. The scent of ozone and crushed violets bloomed, erasing the smells of turpentine and despair.“Such a tragic palette,” a voice murmured, a sound like old silk and honeyed smoke. “All that grey. It doesn’t suit the fire in you, Julian.”He turned, the bottle s