บททั้งหมดของ Compilation Of Short Stories : บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

The wild's first law is that a storm does not seek permission; it takes, and tonight it had taken the three of them and locked them within a stone scented darkness.The old hunting lodge, a reminder of long-forgotten days, groaned at the lash of the wind, its wooden pillars shuddering with every blast that thudded against the mountainside. Inside, the universe had narrowed to the edge of a smoking ember, its tongues of fire licking the tightly drawn bodies of the three improbable friends fortune had brought together to share each other's company. Aris, the human biologist, her practical clothing still damp, stared into the fire as if it could yield the answers to the violent twist her research trip had taken. Young shifter Joren hummed with a bottled energy that resonated the air itself around him, his usual playfulness put aside for a focused intensity that was both unnerving and captivating.And Varya, the seasoned huntress, moved with an economy of motion hinted at a long-establis

She had volunteered herself to the show, and now the amber tide of eyes looked at her, suppliant and hungry.Shadows of the fire danced across the pale skin of her back, her back stiff and submissive as the Pack Beta guided her through the crowd with a firm hand on the small of her back. They did not mock nor taunt; their respect was an alive, burning thing, a silent acknowledgment of the ferocity it had taken to defy their way. This was the public tease, the acknowledgement of the private ferocity she'd been craving since she first laid eyes on their leader.He watched from a raised dais, his throne hewn of dark wood behind him. The Alpha. His was Ronan, a deep resonant syllable, and it suited the sheer, still power he had. He did not move, did not speak, but stood and watched her come to him with a gaze that felt like a physical gaze, stripping away the fine silk of her formal tunic and baring her very soul. He was all corded muscles and silent command, his presence a weight that m

During the Fae masquerade ball, the mask doesn't conceal you, but brings out the deepest, darkest, most forbidden hunger you never had the courage to speak aloud.Thalia was well-acquainted with the rule, having felt its truth humming in the air the moment she'd passed through the glittering portal and into the whirling, scented madness of the Twilight Court's ball. Her own black lace mask, which was thin as eggshell, trembled at the raw lust that ran through the great hall, lust in the sheen of eyes and the firm, wary smiles of creatures for whom lust was both currency and sustenance. She was a tiny human in a den of very ancient appetites, and all her nerves bristled with icy, shuddering awareness.It was why she didn't even flinch when the two of them advanced on her. They navigated the throng not as if they belonged to it, but as if the throng parted miraculously before them, a sea of silk and magic flowing aside to twin pillars of predator beauty. Their masks were pieces of art:

The first of the salon rules was that nothing was ever quite as it seemed to be, particularly desire.Aurelia's heart was not pounding in fear, but with hot, thrilling anticipation that made the blood sing in her veins. The atmosphere was heavy with scents of beeswax candles, old brandy, and a strong, heady, sweet scent of violets trampled underfoot. She was the main attraction tonight, and the realization created a shiver of sheer power instead of fear.She had signed in blood-red pen, submitted to health screening with sterile fastidiousness, and now stood waiting, a sapphire silk vision amidst a welter of velvet and blackness. The audience, a somberly chosen company of twelve, sat still, their eyes sparkling in the guttering candles, not with threat, but with rapt attention such as art critics give a work of art in creation. Their voyeurism was a form of worship, and she was their willing deity.Her host for the night swooped across the floor with a fluid grace. He was simply intr

The first she ever knew of him was the silence he wore like a second skin, a silence so deep it seemed that storm raging outside was but a whisper.He was hardly more than a specter in the harsh light of the large log house, a savage shape carved out of blackness and tough flesh, but still sitting in a wrinkled leather armchair. He had not stirred so much as an inch in ten minutes, his eyes fixed on the fire which ate up the great stone hearth, and she, Thalia, sitting on the very edge of the sofa in front of him, steaming primly in her wet clothes, her heart pounding at a frantic, abject pace in her ribcage. He'd removed her car from the mountain road, buried up to the hood in a drift of snow, and silently taken her away, brought her here, provided her with a towel. That was the extent of their conversation.His name was Ronan. That was all she'd gotten from him. And he was gigantic. Not tall, but gigantic, a man who occupied more space than there was. His own face was a topography o