Art Of War Book Amazon Novels & Stories

“For 363 days.” He searched my face, then let go like I’d burned him. He didn’t touch me again for the rest of the drive. That night, I found a book on my nightstand. The Art of War. No note. I opened it. On the first page, in black ink, sharp and precise: Rule six: Enemies are everywhere. Trust no one. Not even me. I closed the book and looked at the camera in the corner. Red light, blinking. Always blinking.

It had only been two nights, but already the place felt less like a hideout and more like a slow, sprawling trap. His phone had two bars, barely. Still, when it rang, he answered before the second buzz. Harlow. “Took you long enough.” Her voice cut sharp. “Took you long enough to almost ruin your life.” “I thought we were past that.” “We’re not past anything, Riven. Your dick is still trending.” He leaned back against the wooden post, lips tugging into a smirk. “So it’s true what they say. Bad press is still press.” “This isn’t press. It’s war.”

In other words, Steven may have won by shooting more targets, but Zach had better marksmanship skills. Both of them had their own strengths and weaknesses, but Nathan still believed that they were both equally special. “Him … if only he were on my side!” Nathan said while staring at the monitor screen, which was now focused on Zach Drey casually chatting with Steven. When he felt there was nothing important happening on that screen anymore, he shifted the display to the living room, where Henry sat with a stiff expression while speaking with Arnold Reed. Arnold Reed, the former vice war general who had betrayed him by trying to kill him.

My eyes filling with tears, the things he has had to endure and to be able to get to me here. I tell him the things I’d done to try and get to him but it seemed he knew most of my moves due to my sketchbook that Lisa had salvaged from the bombed hospital. “Your sketch book moved me. I really think you should publish it, there’s so many stories of the soilders that lost their lives, and their families would probably be so grateful to see your drawings and the things they’d said, messages for their loved one.” Carlo says, my face flushed pink. I must admit it would be quite a good idea, I know that if it were me, I’d definitely want to hear what had happened to my children or family out fighti

There was a kind of respect in the way he let the question dangle. My father nodded once, a crisp downward dip of the chin. “For now.” Another pause, its duration just long enough to reestablish the hierarchy. Then he leaned back slightly, a posture less of relaxation than of disengagement. “There is a difference,” he continued, “between a war that begins by accident….” His gaze found Alexander again. “…and one that begins by design.” The implication hung between us. Someone wanted this war. It was no longer just a matter of pride or territory or even Gabriel; it was a matter of design, and my father intended to be its architect, not its victim.

I also prayed earnestly that he didn’t forget me here. I spotted a bookshelf at the far end of the room and decided to look through it in hopes of finding something to read. The majority of the books were about werewolves and the pack’s history. There were also books about politics, war, and governance. I would have loved to pick up the book that contained information on all members of the Crescent Moon Pack, but I decided against it. It would seem like snooping. I finally settled on a book titled ‘The Art of War.’ Not that I was a fan of violence but I was curious to know why the author had referred to war as an art. It was such a controversial claim.

“And a book? I have tons of books in the study room, but which one will you get?” “Yes,” I smiled again. “The Art of War.” He smirked at me, closing his eyes as he whispered the title. “The Art of War…” He opened his eyes. “Did you know that it’s my favorite book? Why don’t I just buy you a new one?” I shook my head. “I preferred that one because of your own notes, Mr. Mars,” I remembered how he carefully underlined the words and wrote some notes on the white spaces of the book.

It was nearly 5:30 PM according to the clock, and would soon be a new moon by the look of it. He perused the books in the case, briefly scanning their titles. There were some dusty World War II tomes below, most likely George’s, and several of Glee’s books on cooking and gardens—and where was she, anyhow? He saw volumes about ancient Egypt and the pharaohs, the construction of the pyramids and such, while the upper shelves were filled with political books, everything from Pat Buchanan to Arianna Huffington, William F. Buckley Jr. to Gore Vidal. One title caught Richard off guard and made him laugh aloud: On Politics and the Art of Acting, by the playwright Arthur Miller.

Both books are combined together, and Abhimanyu's book is titled *Taken: King's Rights Reserved*. ... Thank you, ShineeSunshine ❤️

He didn’t need to worry about me being spat on by the same city we once called home. Instead, I curled into the corner of the library window seat, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with old mining contracts, blueprints, and books on business theory. I opened one at random. A dusty copy of The Art of War. Page one: “All warfare is based on deception.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Bitterly. Logan wasn’t at war with our company. He was at war with our love. Because in the midst of this chaos, Darren and I had found each other — truly, honestly.