Binding 13 Audiobook Novels & Stories

The kind he has fought before. They stayed in bed, exchanging soft words and long silences that weren’t uncomfortable, just full of things neither of them were quite ready to say. But outside—just down the street—someone else was ready. A black Audi sat idling beneath a tree across from Serena’s building, engine off, windows tinted. Hidden in plain sight. The spring wind fluttered a few cherry blossoms down onto the windshield, but the man inside didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on the fourth-floor window.

This was treason. I didn’t speak. Instead, I wrapped my arms around my husband, trying to fill us both with comfort. His hands gripped my hips, kneading them as the energy shifted between us. The muted hum of the Binding was faint but insistent. It whispered against our bodies, telling us that we belonged together. I ignored the ache in my heart for Vivienne and Nathaniel’s dead friendship and leaned into the Binding. My lips searched for his, up and down his neck and chest. When they finally found his lips, I bit the bottom, hoping a distraction would fill the void I felt.

My hand reaches out, grasping the handle of the sturdy maroon door, but my elation comes to an abrupt halt as an icy grip seizes my arm, wrenching me back towards him with alarming force. I collide with his chest, a jolt of electricity coursing down my spine as his deep voice –a seductive cadence– resonates next to my ear, his breath fanning my skin and luscious lips gently grazing my ear. "Liar." He whispers in my ear, his accusation hanging heavy in the air. His intense gaze, like pools of midnight, bore into me with a silent condemnation, causing my breath to catch in my throat as my world seems to crumble beneath me, quite literally. The ground gives way beneath my feet, swallowing me wh

I read it aloud, slow and uncertain, my voice catching more than once on words that felt heavier than their letters should have allowed, as though the page itself resisted being spoken into the room too quickly. "To whoever finds this," I read. "There is a binding beyond both territories, older than either pack's memory, and a line tasked not with sealing it, but with watching those who do." "Kieran needs to hear this tonight," I said, my voice thinner now than I wanted it to be. "All of it."

Something massive began to climb out. Not fully formed—but reaching. Bishop backed away now, real fear flashing across his face. “That’s not—this isn’t how—” “You didn’t read the ledger closely enough,” Saint snarled. “You never understood the binding.” The thing’s voice fractured. Blood binds. Fire binds. But choice— It hesitated. Choice fractures gods. The refinery erupted. Not outward. Inward. Energy collapsed toward us—toward Luca and me—compressing, screaming, tearing itself apart.

The binding was dark, a shade between bruised purple and coal, cracked with age, and unadorned save for a single phrase impressed in thin silver serif: “The Quiet Cull: A Forgotten History of Hybrid Extinction.” I stared at it. The words didn’t register at first, not completely. They hovered just outside my comprehension, like a whisper I hadn’t quite heard but felt brush the back of my neck. A strange chill stirred low in my stomach, and though my hand remained still at my side, every part of me leaned forward—slowly, cautiously—until I could almost feel the worn texture of the leather beneath my fingertips. Something about it called to me in a way I couldn’t articulate, not with logic or l

The silence stretched, charged with unspoken desire and frustration. Finally, he exhaled sharply and stepped back, running a hand through his dark hair. “Fine,” he said, his voice rough. “You want to play in my world? I’ll give you one club. The new one on the east side. But you report to me, Bella. And you don’t get to run off and do things your way. Understand?”

Traitor Carter “Hello, Orpheus. I’m surprised you are alive, little traitor. If Ryder or Storm were Griffen, you’d be dead. Traitors end up disintegrating in a barrel until they become traitor soup. Isn’t that right, Book?” Ajax asks after we load the bed of the truck and climb in. He is sitting behind me with a blade pressed against my cerebral vertebrae. Booker is in the backseat beside Ajax while Jensen starts the truck. I look up into the rearview mirror to see a curved knife against Ajax's throat with blood trickling down it. “I warned you before. Don’t call me Book,” he snarls at Ajax.

Something primal, something wild. I reached out, instinctively grasping Luca’s hand. The moment our fingers touched, a jolt of energy shot through me, sending a shockwave of warmth spreading from my chest outward. I felt the connection between us intensify, the bond pulling tighter, as if something was drawing us together, forcing us to become one. "Now," Astra said, her voice sharp with authority. "Let the binding begin."

He sits very still at the kitchen table with his palms up the way he had them last night — that specific deliberate openness — and I lay my hands over his and reach for the power that has been living in me since the coronation. The binding goes differently than the command. It does not push out. It wraps. I feel it moving from my bloodline through the contact of our hands, finding the specific frequency of Marcus's partial royal blood and organizing itself around it like water finding the shape of a vessel. Marcus makes a small sound. "It is warm." "Yes." "It feels like—" He pauses, concentrating. "Like when you hug me. But on the inside." I do not respond because I cannot respond to that wi