Annora Petrova Novels & Stories

I might have been paranoid to find it suspicious, but she kept giving me reasons not to trust her. “Arianna! Darling!” a high-pitched voice called out. I turned to the source and saw a light-brown-haired woman in her fifties rushing toward us, her arms spread in a nearly theatrical welcoming gesture. Her sparkling, navy blue gown trimmed with feathers kind of made her look like a giant bird and rather marked her as desperate than chic, but I doubted she realized that. Vera Fedorova had always been too uppity to notice how pathetic she was. I inwardly rolled my eyes as she air-kissed Arianna before outstretching her hand as if expecting me to kiss it. “Mr. Thorne.”

But i still picked the call anyways. "Hi, please are you by anyways, Miss Selene Woods?" - A feminine voice came from the other end, soft, polite and yet, straight to the point. "Yes, i am she!!. How may i be of help to you?" - I replied in a wary tone. "Great!!. My name is Anne Moreau, i'm a manager at Livelia entertainment and also a friend of the professor." - She introduced herself briefly, her tone filled with strict professionalism. " Oh..." - I gasped.

"Bolshoi Theater ballet performances. Prima ballerina Anastasia Kovrova and ballerino Antonio Sergeyevich." Both of Stella's eyes filled with tears. She felt incredulous about what was in her hands. "Anastasia Kovrova is a prima ballerina who originally held the title of première danseuse." Stella took the smartphone. She unlocked the gallery feature. "In this world, there are only 6 dancers who have the title of prima ballerina assoluta. They are Mikaela Xandrova and Gelya Alexandria from Russia, Alicia Folko from Australia, Maya Chironomidae from Sweden, Jasmine White from England, and Maria Horrorette from France."

Serena: The morning lesson felt like punishment. The instructor stood at the front of the concubine hall, writing phrases on the digital board while the other women copied them into neat notebooks. The lesson was the language of wolves: phrases, gestures, titles, the small rules that kept a wolf’s world ordered and predictable. In Petrova territory, a single wrong word could cost you more than pride. It could cost you safety.

"The following candidates will remain. Anya Petrova, Lucia Moretti, Valentina Rossi, Isabella Bianchi, and Elara Vance." I heard my name and felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. They had chosen me. I looked around the room, my eyes wide with shock, and saw the other candidates staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and contempt. Anya smirked, smug and satisfied.

I sat in on the third recovery session. The person in the chair was a young woman named Petra, twenty two, who had been seventeen when the summit happened and had spent the years since unable to access the wolf half of herself fully. She sat across from Nyxara with the particular mixture of hope and careful distance that people carried when they had hoped for something before and paid for it.Nyxara talked to her for an hour.

“It’s James Pietro.” Massimo’s eyes darkened. For a moment, he thought he heard wrong. Then his face twisted with frustration. “Fuck,” he hissed. James Pietro. Anna’s cousin brother. Anna… Leone’s wife. The love of Leone’s life. Massimo ran his hand through his dark red locks, irritated. How could he forget? Anna had once been the strongest Donna in Russia. That meant her bloodline was power. Her family wasn’t ordinary. And now… Her cousin was sitting at the top in Russia.

His face is blurry to me. His voice is muffled. I inhale as my eyes shut. Now too heavy to open. But a scent fills my nostrils, a family scent. I cling to it as I truly fall into oblivion. ---- Andrea Something soft is touching my face. Patting my cheek delicately. Andrea. Open your eyes. I don't want to though. I'm warm, comfortable. The softness continues to caress my face. Leaving tingles trailing it as it moves.

I simply don’t know how to protect the alliance, without taking my fiancée as my Luna. As I am about to take her hand, I feel Anya’s hand on my shoulder. “Still breaking it to the little Lily pad that you are rejecting her, Jar?” she asks. “Anya, it’s not that easy,” I start to say. “Oh Jar, it’s super simple. You reject her, she accepts, end of story,” Anya says.

Would there be anything or anyone left to save? So here she was now, Phaeka, a once proud Imperium noblewoman, reduced to this -- naked, brutally raped, helpless to do anything. In her peripheral vision, meanwhile, she saw her daughter's ordeal continue to unfold nearby. The tallest of the gladiators, their leader, a man named Gorlann, now had Anaria on her hands and knees. He fucked her roughly from behind. The sound of their bodies smacking together reached Phaeka's ears like a tortuous song. She risked looking at her daughter's face. Anaria grunted with each penetration, but the light in the girl's eyes had not gone out yet despite all she'd endured.