Black Fiction Books นิยาย & เรื่องราว

he points at her with his chin, expressionless, “didn't you want to join our group? There is the proof.” I swallow a bitter breath when I reach for it and study it, without a doubt it is the same bracelet that the Zanni subjects had. “Why black?” “I really don't know.” He dives into the pages of his new book of the week and surprisingly it is not the one he read yesterday. Had I already finished it? For sure yes. His title was somewhat ironic; The Darkest Book of Cheap Poetry.

You can message me via my social media accounts and we can be friends there. F******k Account: Ben Miguel Agustin I*******m Account: @yuuji_sukunarts Email Address: tanjiroalvez@g***l.com Thank you again for reading this story. Thank you also to GoodNovel for giving me the opportunity to share my craft to you. And above all, I thank God for giving me the wisdom, strength and courage to finish this story. All glory to Him. I am closing this story but will be writing the volume 2 next year. Please be informed that this is the first installment of my series titled, “Black Zodiac series.” Thank you and sending lots of love.

My name is Emily, and I’ve always been the good girl. Straight A’s, captain of the debate team, the one who volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends. At 22, I’m in my final year of college, majoring in literature, dreaming of becoming a writer someday. But beneath that polished exterior, there’s a secret side of me—a side that craves the forbidden, the filthy, the kind of pleasure that makes your toes curl and your mind shatter. And it all revolves around him: Professor Adrian Black.

Emma hated violence, and she had never read a book detailing such raw brutality. But this wasn't just a mere book. Someone had written it—like a twisted, violent diary. She desperately wanted to believe that it was just a random story, but if it was just normal fiction, why was she so incredibly drawn to it? What was so odd and magnetic about that black book?

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The entire hall smells of old books and bleach. Row after row of neatly lined books with their spines facing outward, colour-coded with dots, fiction section arranged in alphabetical order. She scanned slowly until her eyes met Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's "Half of a yellow sun". She took it out, and then went behind in search of a place to sit and devour the book.

They'd read 9 Lives, 10 Circles, and been tested on it. He wished he had a copy right now. It was a fiction book about one tom's attempt to gain an audience with the Black Devil. It read like a tour guide of the Underworld, down to the minutest detail, when it didn't go into the scratchings of the main character's slowly twisting mind.

I held back a laugh at his mocking tone and returned my gaze to Blackthorn. “Did your Beta catch you up now?” he said sarcastically, and I held back from rolling my eyes at his condescending tone. “Yes, thank you,” I replied with the same level of sarcasm. “So this supernatural is releasing information how, again?” I asked. “In the form of fiction books,” Blackthorn snapped. “Well, if the books are marked as fiction, then why is it an issue? I mean, it’s not like the other tripe that is out there is causing us any harm,”

The study was dark, so I opened the blinds and took in the room. It was very... August. Brown. Black. More black. Not a single color brave enough to survive in here. There was a minibar. I wasn't surprised to find it stocked mostly with expensive whiskey. The bookshelf took up almost an entire wall. Business books. Finance books. Leadership books. Books about making money. Books about keeping money. Books about probably becoming even more unbearable than he already was. Not one novel. Not even a guilty pleasure romance. What a sad life.

Just muttered, “Feel free to browse.” I nodded and wandered. The silence was thick. Peaceful. I ran my fingers along the spines—mysteries, war history, sci-fi. None of it felt right. I turned a corner and found myself in a crooked, narrow aisle. A handwritten label above the shelf read: “Folklores, Myths & Things Best Left Alone.” Something about it made me shiver. I reached out and picked a worn, black-spined book: “The Blood and Bond of the Wild.”