Arthur Morgan Journal Sketches Novelas e Histórias

But I’ll know—and Arthur will know, once he sees the finished piece—that she’s there, just out of sight, watching over us. “What are you working on?” Arthur’s voice suddenly asks. I jump, not having realized that he got up from his seat and is now behind me, trying to peer over my shoulder. I quickly close my sketchbook and tuck it against my chest. “You can’t see it yet.” His eyebrows lift. “A surprise? For me?” “Don’t get a big head. Maybe it’s for Miles.” “Liar,” he says fondly, reaching over my shoulder for the sketchbook. “Let me see.”

She ran her fingers over the brass armature, remembering the fear and the certainty of the code. ​She noticed a small, beautifully bound leather journal tucked away on a high, otherwise empty shelf. It was thick, obviously old, and looked entirely out of place in the modern, digital landscape of his study. ​Unable to resist the temptation of a possible key to his past, Amara pulled the journal down. It was heavy, the leather soft with age. She opened it, expecting meticulous ledgers or coded accounts. ​Instead, the pages were filled with intricate, detailed sketches and technical drawings—not of weapons or smuggling routes, but of architectural designs, engineering schematics, and detailed b

However, it is clear that from the days of yore, these two kinds have always come up with one sinister plot or another. I do not know how Arthur acquired this book but this is a personal book that I am sure was not given out willingly. In actual fact, this book is written like a journal. In it, different projects where the two kinds sort to work with each other, are recorded. I suck in my breath and adjust my posture.

Every page of the notebook was only her face. Her little heart slowly shattered when she saw how beautiful the lady was. Morgan draws it full of love and emotions. She sniffed when her tears were about to flow, and wiped it when Morgan was near to him. “Don’t do this again! I don’t like it when someone keeps touching my things!” Morgan nagged. He took the notebook and hid it on his armpit as if he was scared that he might lose it.

I said. "Morgana," he said. "I know what that sounds like and I know she was exiled months ago. But I have seen Morgana in person more than once and what I saw through that gap in the tent looked exactly like her. Same height. Same face. Same way she holds herself when she is standing still." I looked at him for a moment. This man did not invent things. He was one of the steadiest scouts I had and he had been doing this work for years without once bringing me a report that turned out to be false.

By midnight, the storm outside had reached a crescendo, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the library. On the table between them lay her father’s journal, its pages covered in a complex cipher of botanical sketches and numerical grids. ​Vivian leaned over the table, her silk blouse draping open slightly, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. She was exhausted but hyper-aware of Arthur’s proximity. He had shed his suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up his muscular, vein-lined forearms.

What have I done to myself? The bell above the door tinkled. Morgan opened her eyes and lifted her head when she observed a tall, handsome and well-developed man wearing a dark gray topcoat. When he took off his cowboy hat, his short coal-black hair stayed in place. He nodded to her and proceeded to peruse the gallery. I guess I should use some of my marketing skills Sam reminded me I had. "Hello." Morgan strolled to him in front of the display of the small-framed black and whites. "Are you looking for anything in particular?" Her eyes met his; beautiful brown eyes with gold flecks appeared fiery and her heartbeat quickened.

“I chose this. I chose you.” He stared at me for a moment. “Then promise me something.” “Anything.” “If I go too far—if I become something else—you’ll pull me back.” I nodded. “I will. Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.” A faint smile. “Fair enough.” Morgan’s estate was as cold as I remembered it—gleaming, sterile, an architectural marvel with zero soul. She met us in the conservatory. Dressed in ivory, calm, regal. But her eyes were tired. The weight of the headlines had found their way into her pores.

Morgan's first moan came when Jessica mischievously squeezed his magic spear until Jessica took off her husband's big trousers and underwear. Gkug! Jessica swallowed hard when she saw her husband's magic spear standing tall and ready to crush her. Morgan closed her eyes as those delicate fingers caressed the snakehead underneath the magic spear. Jessica's Naughty Hands massaged the magic spear up and down. Morgan lost! He couldn't stand it. He quickly carried her to their bed and threw her on it. Morgan forced open what Jessica was wearing tonight. Starting from her lips, neck to Morgan ferociously sipping the skin of Jessica's chest.

Not yet. I read over the scroll. Most of it was fluff. ‘We whereby humbly request The Huntress…’ blah blah. I skimmed through the sentences and stopped. I blinked back tears. Looking up at Morgan, he wasn’t looking at the scroll anymore. He was looking out the window, leaning his head on his hand. His eyes were also filled with tears. “The BloodHunter Coven. Morgan…” I looked back down at the page, hoping that I hadn’t seen that.