Atticus Bookstore Novels & Stories

He suggests, the idea tempting. “Deal. But can we start with the kids first.” I agree. “Definitely.” With that, we clink our glasses together and head back upstairs, Atticus bringing the open bottle of wine with us. Next move I will definitely pay for someone else to do all the furniture building. … “So you have never been to The Keg?” Atticus chuckles out, sipping on a glass of wine mixed with blood. It turns out this branch is owned by his friend; a Vampire like him.

His patience, a weapon honed by years of calculated ambition, was being tested, but never broken. The metallic click of a heavy deadbolt echoed down the desolate corridor, followed by the shuffle of heavy boots. A gruff, impersonal voice, devoid of any deference or respect, announced through the thick, reinforced door. "Alpha Atticus! Your visitor is here. Beta Jax." Atticus didn't acknowledge the guard's flat tone. His gaze was already fixed on the door, an almost imperceptible shift in his rigid posture. A moment later, the heavy, clanging door of the visitation room groaned open, allowing Jax, Atticus’s loyal Beta, to enter.

And here he was, doing it himself—no Leo, no aide—picking up his daughter from some dingy, unnoticeable bookstore. A whim. That's what he kept telling himself. He had completed a brutal acquisition call an hour early. Instead of driving to his penthouse to stare into the same glass of stale scotch, he told his assistant to cancel dinner tonight and turned the car around. His daughter was more valuable than his sporadic and hollow "I love yous." This was an attempt—a cold, awkward one—to reach for something real again. He hadn't expected the street to be so quiet. Julian's eyes scanned the tiny shop wedged between a boutique flower store and a yoga studio. **Chapter & Soul**. The title glowed

“You’re crazy. I don’t love you. I never will.” But he doesn’t seem to hear me. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a silver locket. “I was going to give you this tonight.” He pinches the side and it flicks open. When I don’t take it from him, he dangles it before my eyes. I expect to see a picture of myself and him, but on the right oval, there is an elegant scrawling with a single word. Name. Lucianne. “For our daughter,” Atticus adds. “I carved it myself.” My free hand flies instinctively to my stomach. “There is no ‘our’! My—”

“Not if I want to fix what I helped break years ago.” His eyes hardened instantly. “You don’t get to rewrite history now.” Before Elena could respond, Carter’s voice echoed from the upper level balcony. “Finch. Office. Now.” Atticus’s shoulders stiffened. He glanced once more at Elena, then pushed off the bench and skated toward the exit without another word. Carter’s office smelled faintly of expensive cologne and polished wood. The walls were lined with framed press clippings, awards, and carefully curated reminders of his influence over the franchise.

asked Nancy, in a very fake sad voice. At half-past seven, Mrs Smith and Emma went for the grand opening of their neighbour's bookstore. Emma wore a causal t-shirt on her jeans along with her thick jacket and shoes. It was huge compared to the other bookstores in Roseville. This bookstore was a rectangular building with huge glass windows on either side of the wooden door. Their neighbour, Mr Walter, a tall but very lean man, welcomed them inside and guided them. The ground floor was devoted to the children's section and fiction. A small wooden table and a chair were also kept close to the door. Mr Walter told them that it was reserved for a special guest. The first floor was devoted to non

I accepted Annelise's invitation and visited her at her work at the mall. She used her amazing and long lunch time to show me her favorite stores, including a bookstore whose shelves reached two floors of the building, and the characteristic smell of new and never used books filled the entire environment. I myself was strongly influenced by the unique atmosphere that a library or bookstore can offer, and I ended up buying half my salary of books that would require a lot of strength from my arms to carry them. Also inside the bookstore I was introduced to one of her best friends, Zylah, a very thin and tall girl, with dark blonde hair and green eyes, and the only attendant in the whole store.

“And enjoy the ride.” I wasn’t sure how he expected me to enjoy the ride when the engine of the bike was making my pussy tingle from where it touched the metal or how I could feel the monster in Atticus’ pants against my ass, but by the time we reach our destination, I’m more than happy to get off before I jump him right here in the street. Seeming to notice, Atticus gives me a smirk before unchaining Titus and throwing him over his shoulder. “You wait out here,” he says, beginning to make his way toward the building in front of us. “I won’t be long.”

“Yes, you can. I got this.” Lily turned back to Atlas, who was waiting patiently. After a beat, she sighed. “Fine. But if this is some elaborate scheme to get me into a hiking trail, I’m out.” Atlas laughed. “Noted. Come on.” Lily wasn’t sure what she expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. “A bookstore café?” she asked as they stepped inside the cozy space. Atlas grinned. “You get coffee and books. It’s basically your version of paradise.” Lily glanced around, taking in the warm lighting and endless rows of bookshelves. She had to admit it was perfect.

I muttered and shuffled toward the library in search of the tan leather-bound book. Atticus’s library was enormous and the shelves of books also housed different magical artifacts on display. I was warned to not mess with them until I understood their properties. Searching everywhere I was growing frustrated. Heading down the last book case I growled. Not having any luck locating the book I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes, and raised my arms “Room of my family's bloodline please allow me to enter by showing me the book for your entrance!” Opening my eyes and tilting my head I heard movement down the row of shelving. Going toward the sound I see a tan book sticking out on the bottom shelf.