50 Shades Of Grey Elena Novels & Stories

Elena's pov My headache pulsed in time with the elevator music as a girl chatted beside me. I flicked a glance in her direction, taking in her sleek brown ponytail and the tight McDonald's uniform and jeans that made her look more like a beauty queen than a part-timer. While I, on the other hand, look like a homeless person in my oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Way to go, Elena. I shifted my gaze to the elevator and took my long sip of my matcha, hoping I'd get to my floor as soon as possible.

she said, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye, “I know your master for the longest time.” “What do you mean?” Kael asked, his heart racing with intrigue mixed with unease. There was something about the way she spoke that hinted at different stories, layers of twist beneath the surface. “You don’t need to worry about it. I’ll help you prove yourself.” Elena said, her purple eyes glowing under the candles illuminating the cabin. Kael who was looking at Elena's eyes could help but shiver, her purple eyes seems to have a swirling black tornado. “You will help me?” he asked cautiously.

Sasha stood beside Alex as they waited, her nerves stretched thin. When Elena finally arrived, she was every bit as striking as Sasha remembered. Dressed in a sleek black gown that clung to her curves, she exuded confidence and danger in equal measure. Her dark eyes swept over the room before landing on Alex. “Alex,” she purred, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “It’s been too long.” “Elena,” he replied coolly, his expression guarded. Her gaze flicked to Sasha, and the smile sharpened. “And you must be the infamous Sasha. I’ve heard so much about you.”

The bedsheet is soaked red with her blood and her eyes remain open as if even in death she could find no peace. I kneel beside the bed and gently close her eyes before covering her body with my shawl. Liam comes in from behind and shakes his head. “There should be more, find them,” I tell him. “I’m going to the tower.” *** ELENA’s POV I lie on the cold hard floor and stare at the ceiling as Clyde pulls up his pants. He looks down at me, disgusted and kicks me at my sides. It is painful and I curl into a fetal position, holding onto my stomach. Another tear slides down my cheeks.

That electric awareness that prickles along his spine and makes his wolf lift its head. She's here. Gabriel's eyes sweep the cemetery entrance before he can stop himself. And there she is. Elena Sterling stands at the top of the stone steps, surveying the crowd with those silver-blue eyes that have haunted his dreams for six years. She's dressed in black, a simple dress that flows to just below her knees, her dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist. She looks like a widow who's forgotten she's supposed to be mourning someone else's husband. Gabriel's breath catches.

And then my eyes drifted—almost against my will—toward the far end of the hall. To her. Elena. She stood beside Alpha Salvatore, her head slightly tilted as he spoke to one of the foreign Lunas. Her dress was midnight black velvet, simple yet powerful. No jewelry, no flashy makeup. Her hair was tied back in a neat braid that framed her sharp cheekbones and serious eyes. She didn’t smile. She didn’t fidget. She simply… was. Still. Poised. Unshakeable. And I hated that a part of me admired it.

"Especially Damien. He's... he's been through a lot." Lucas paused, his expression growing serious. "Did you know he had a sister?" I shook my head, surprised. "I assumed he was an only child." A bitter laugh escaped Lucas. "As usual, Mrs. Grey did an excellent job covering up." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Her name was Elena Grey. She was murdered in their old house in Spain when she was just fifteen." I gasped, horrified. "That's awful!" Lucas nodded grimly. "Since that day, Damien's life has been one mysterious threat after another. He's been strong, fighting through it all, but this recent incident... it broke something in him."

CHAPTER 57: THE REALITY OF THE RIFT The grainy, flickering image on the terminal screen felt like a physical blow to my solar plexus. I stood frozen, my silver-mercury wings twitching with a nervous, electric energy that mirrored the static on the monitor. The woman in the video—the real Elena—looked like a hollowed-out version of the nightmare I had been fighting. Her eyes weren't white-gold; they were a weary, human brown, rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from decades of being buried alive.