A Man's Perspective Novels & Stories

The man looked back at me. Something in the quality of his regard had shifted, and I thought that what had shifted was the model he was working from, the model built on my father's observations and the woman's observations and all the careful watching that had produced a picture of me as someone who could be moved by the right application of pressure. The picture was not wrong, exactly. But it was incomplete. "You are going to be very difficult to work with," he said.

Jordan's P O V The strange man who is the reason I'm being held captive moved away from me after having whispered close to my ears and he returned himself back to his wheelchair still with a disturbing expression on his face and everything about him was questionable. I mean, who uses a wheelchair when he walks perfectly fine. And why does he have a resting evil face?

"It's a way to help those who need it. Sometimes people don't realize they're making a difference, but they are. You don't have to be a police officer to help those who need it.” "I know, but I think that for the great gossiper that I am, being part of the investigations and discovering all the gossip beforehand would be satisfactory "I spoke with a smile, the man muffled the laughter in the mouth of the beer bottle. "Someday I hope to have the chance to do this. I'll try to study and focus on what I need. Right now, I'm just trying to live. Many things have happened in the last few months of my life. Some tragedies. Things that shook me deeply. So I need to find a way to deal with it, befor

THIRD PERSON'S POV In a dimly lit office, where maps of the territories are pinned and red strings connect pins across territories, a man paces furiously. The air is thick with the scent of cigar smoke and tension. He suddenly turns to face his subordinate, who stands before the desk with his eyes fixed on the floor and his shoulders hunched. Sweat beads on his temple. "Twenty men," the leader hisses, low and dangerous. "Twenty of our warriors are gone. For nothing. The Alpha is still breathing."

On the back, in someone's neat handwriting, names corresponding to positions. I read them. Third from the right. I turned the photograph over and looked at the man. Fifties. Silver-haired. The particular build of someone who had been athletic in his youth and had let time and prosperity do what time and prosperity do. He was not looking at the camera. He was looking at Victor Holt with an expression I could not quite name from this angle and this distance. But his hands were visible. His right hand specifically. I looked at it for a long time.

He jammed his hands in the front pockets of his khaki pants, because he didn’t know what else to do with them. The man and woman were equally wary, stopping five feet from him. Waiting. For what? For him to be the first one to speak? To explain? Near as he could tell, they were the ones who had a helluva lot of explaining to do. He turned his focus to the man. Probably in his early sixties. He wasn’t tall; he wasn’t short, just average height. Solidly built, not fat, not skinny, not muscular, not wiry, but his carriage and clothing screamed physical laborer. He had a full head of black hair randomly streaked with silver. When Gavin met the man’s eyes, blue eyes identical to the ones staring

My gaze snaps to the sound, and I freeze. There's a man standing there—muscular, maybe early thirties, with dark hair and kind eyes. But those eyes are set in a face that looks like it went ten rounds with a brick wall. His jaw is swollen, there's a cut across his cheekbone, and I can see bruises disappearing beneath his collar. Despite looking like hell, he's... smirking? Like he's watching something amusing. Gray follows my gaze and immediately moves to block my view, but not before I catch the man's expression shift to something almost fond.

I slowly looked up, peering over the edge of the cubicle. ​Across the room, standing near a shelf of thick legal encyclopedias, was a man. He wasn't a student. He was much older, maybe in his fifties, wearing a sharp grey suit that looked like it cost more than my tuition. He wasn't looking at books. He was looking at me. ​His eyes were the most unsettling part. They weren't blue or brown; they looked like cold, flat glass. He didn't blink. He just watched me with a stillness that made my blood run cold.

This was it. I took a deep breath. A long, shaky sigh. My heart pounded against my ribs as I knocked. The door opened to reveal a man seated behind a large desk. He looked to be in his forties. He was busy, his eyes fixed on papers, stacks of records. He seemed so focused, so serious, barely acknowledging my presence. Unlike the friendly man who had interviewed me, this man was different. He looked stern, he wasn't smiling at all, just a hard gaze.

Better for him, less humans equalled less noise. A deep inhale filled his chest with air, an effort to calm his nerves. The keys jingling in his pocket as he listed woods to let out stress with a early night hunt. "She is strong, but you know she won't survive what's coming!" A man said appearing venturing out of the next room, his voice deep followed by the crunch of the handful of popcorn he stuffed into his mouth. Grey paid no attention till he set eyes on the source of those words.. An older man in a black suit, his aura Full of pride and self praise. His smile present even as he munched on popcorn from the cup-full he held. All his attributes summed to a signature Grey recognized even b