Al Brooks Books Novels & Stories

"Deal with me, Brooks. Leave... Riven... out of this." Master Brooks moved to a chair a little far from us, like a podium. He sat back in his high, leather-backed chair at the head of the room. He crossed his legs. He looked down at Sky with a cold, disgusted look—no emotions, not a single one. This man is a monster!

A half-smoked cigarette dangled between my fingers, the glow between my curled, stiff fingers the only warmth in the dimly lit sala. I took another long drag, letting the smoke sear into my lungs before slowly blowing it out. My head was a battle zone, images of deception flashing like gunfire: Victor and his sneer, poisoned wine, and the audacity of men who believed they were more clever than me—better or more worthy of what I’d earned in blood and steel. The business world was a more deadly version of an unloaded pistol with the safety off. Deals sealed with a handshake could explode like grenades. Survival was more than just pulling a trigger; it meant knowing when to pull it, who to aim

**Chapter 198: Final Reveal** Brooks The book deal offer sat on the kitchen island like a live grenade. I’d printed the email. The advance figure was staggering. The marketing budget even more so. But the condition stared back at me in plain black text: *full transparency tour—interviews, podcasts, potential limited documentary extension. No holding back on the syndicate, the link, the D/s dynamic, the mental health struggles.* Callan stood across from me, arms braced on the counter, reading the email for the third time. The house was quiet. Kids were at a playdate with the assistant coach’s family. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching on the half-melted snow outside.

It was too damn early in the morning for anyone to be that gorgeous and. She stopped her train of thought right there. She'd done some research on the market and found that steamy romance was the in thing these days, so she had sex on the brain. She'd read a few snippets of stories about hot alpha males who were the take charge and forceful type. She hadn't known until now that she was into that. But the fact that she'd kept putting this one's face over everything she read, imagining it was him they were describing, was a recipe for trouble.

Elara nodded, returning her attention to her text book. Nyra also opened the book she had just gotten and began talking about something else entirely, but Elara’s mind was somewhere else, because despite how easily the words had come, how sensible the choice felt, Adrian Moore’s name lingered far longer in her mind than she wanted to admit.

A hurray for me, yay. Sighing, I went towards my locker. She smirked at me, giving me the space to open up the lock. Opening up the metal door, I placed my books inside and closed it. “What do you need?” I said, turning towards her. I was already tired and I didn’t want another drama. “Aw, poor whore is talking back?” Her high pitched voice entered my ears. I winced back. “Oh wait, you’re not a whore, you’re a fucking prostitute who loves to open her legs.”

Not like this. I barreled through undergrowth, branches ripping at my arms and face, giving me little red slashes I didn’t notice at first. The world smelled of damp earth and gun smoke and my own blood. Each breath I pulled tasted of iron and fear. I choked on it and kept moving.

LANEY "I can't believe you are officially twenty one we going to get shit faced tonight "my friend Alison says "bitch I can't wait I even want to get laid "so you climbing that chocolate mountain tonight ?"she asks wiggling her brows I smile "yes we have been going out for two months already I need it " she laughs while I put on the final touch ups on my make up. A knock comes at my bedroom door "come in "I say my stepbrother Zach steps in his unruly jet black waves come to his eyes which are framed by thick black glasses hiding the true colour of his eyes sometimes they green or blue I am not sure.

POV: Frederick I held the clear folder under the yellow basement light. Darla Waid’s signature gleamed in blue ink, clean and stamped without a trace of a tremor over the Balboas' bond. I turned my head toward Luke. His face was completely pale, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles bulged under his skin. His eyes were not looking at the page; they stared blankly at the brick wall with a blind, murderous resentment I had never seen on his face before.

"I'm not running from anything." Brooks hummed low, as if he didn't quite believe me. "Right. Of course not." The room seemed to shrink, as if the walls had closed in on me while I wasn't looking. Brooks was a master of moving around people, pushing them, poking at their defenses just to see where they would crack. And currently, I could see that he was having the time of his life. "See, you know," he thought, his voice dropping slightly, "I don't know, how much of you is really you? And how much is just whatever Tristan permits you to be? Tristan can be quite controlling."