Novelas y relatos de A Poetry Book

I was watching him drape a warm wool blanket over the chair, I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s our plan here?” “Just trust me,” he replied with that enigmatic subtle smile of his. He motioned for me to take a seat beside him, right next to the window where the sunlight streamed in. I tilted my head, curious, while he retrieved something hidden beneath his arm. It was a book. He opened it gently. “What’s that?” “A collection of human poems,” he explained. I lifted an eyebrow. “Where did you manage to get those?”

***Author's Note: This book will not make sense if you do not read the two before this first. So, please read: Book one: P.S. You're My Mate Book two: She's My Mate Before reading this book. Thank you and enjoy!! _________________________________________________ QUADE Poetry. Tattoos. Piercings. Sex.

“If I do need anything, I’ll let you know. Thanks for asking .” He slowly returned to the desk. She then moved to the bookshelf and straightened the spines. She saw Titles in law, finance, and travel. But there was a single slim poetry volume book tucked sideways; it was as if it had been hidden rather than shelved to be noticed. The vent whispered loudly. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard complained. The manor kept its own soundtrack; today, it sounded like a held breath.

I whisper. This time, the tears don’t feel like weakness. They feel like healing. Like something finally beginning. ************************ Unspoken Desires - Book 3…. Coming Soon

Piper — cat, queen, bookstore menace — stalked over the counter like she owned it and plopped herself on the pile. "You're in the way," Aria said. Piper blinked at her, stretched, and knocked a paperback to the floor. "You're fired." The bell above the door rang just before noon. A woman stepped in, tall, sharp, her coat the green of frozen leaves. "Do you have anything that feels like winter?" she asked. "Genre?" "Poetry. Something cold." Aria nodded, stepping toward a shelf. She traced the spines until she found it: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it over without a word.

“It reminds me that we’re all just figuring it out. Life, love… everything.” Her eyes lingered on mine for a moment too long before she tucked the book under her arm. “I’m taking this one,” she said with a smile. Afterward, we walked two blocks down to a small café that hosted poetry readings every Friday night. The place was dimly lit, candles flickering on every table, the air humming with soft jazz and the occasional snapping of fingers after each poem.

"Can you do those three things?" "Yes." "Then come tomorrow. We'll see if you're honest or just desperate." She disappeared into the crowd before Yessica could respond. She barely slept. Lay in the narrow bed with both hands on her stomach, talking quietly to the baby about bookshops and second chances and women who saw through armor. At eight-forty the next morning, she stood outside Pages & Poetry. It was exactly right. Narrow. Crammed from floor to ceiling with books. A handwritten sign in the window. The bell above the door sounded like the start of something.

It was a small volume of poems by a writer named Olaren the Younger, who had lived two hundred years ago at the edge of the eastern continent and had written about water and waiting. The book had been lost in the fire. She had been trying to remember the poems ever since. She recited two for me. The ones she could remember most of. They were simple. They were about a river going past a stone. They were the kind of poems a man read when he had spent his life ruling a founder pack and needed a quiet thing at the end of the day. I wrote the poems down. I wrote them on a clean page in my study. I added them to the drawer where I kept Mira's letters and my father's last note.

Sophia POV The living room felt charged with electricity, every shadow soft and intimate under the warm glow of the lamps. I stood near the large window, sipping my wine slowly, the black dress I’d chosen clinging to my body like a second skin. It hugged my breasts, accentuated my waist, and stopped mid-thigh. No bra. Just delicate black lace panties underneath. My nipples were already tight with anticipation. Ryan watched me from across the room, his eyes dark with a mixture of love, nerves, and raw desire.

I wasn't even able to see any particle of dust there. The carpet on the floor was so beautiful too. "What types of books you are reading?" I shivered as I heard Ibrahim saying while entering from the door. I smiled. "I am not reading anything now," I said. He nodded and said. "I was looking for you and one of your attendees said that you are here. So, I came here too." "Ohh," I said and asked him. "Can you suggest to me some poetry books?" He nodded and we both started exploring the library.