Bonnie Funny Mga Nobela at Kwento

*Abandoning ship isn’t my style. It wasn’t hers either, but our circumstances ripped us apart. Now it’s not just a literal ocean standing between us. Francine Chirilova has no direction. After coming out of the closet leaves her without a family at age 18, the quick witted 25 year old has been forced to survive on her connections and kind personality. Throw in a rapidly decreasing appetite and a tendency to gravitate toward abusive women for a epic shit show. While recovering from her latest 4 year long mistake, she makes a strong, yet unlikely connection with her virtual best friend. Que in recovering alcoholic Vasilisa Krovopuskova, aged 26 from Siberia, Russia. After surviving a grueling upbringing on her own, trust is a difficult concept to grasp. Already having experienced heartbreak once before, she wasn’t looking for anything serious when Francine crash landed into her life via an online sanctuary for lesbians. With an ocean separating the two, neither Francine nor Vasilisa know which direction to swim in. Will they stay on their side of the world, or drown trying to get to the other? *Disclaimer* - Strong mature content. 18+, please Book one. To follow is book two: “Our Blank Canvas.”

Year Malkame returns to her hometown after ten years of exile. She came back following pieces of a puzzle she really needed to find in order to meet her Secret santa, the man or woman who had been gifting her lonely childhood Christmases with joy and music. Being sent away from her home at the age of fourteen, she had lost the trail of the person she was looking for. But now, she wants to finally find him. But in her journey, she finds her childhood best friend Justin. A misfortune leaves her under the same roof with this man. What happens when long-time friends come together after ten years? What happens when she realizes who her secret santa is? And what the hell happens when a billionaire decides he suddenly wants her to not only work for him but also be his woman?

My mate, Kane Blackwood, was the most feared Alpha in the Northlands. For three years, he treated me like something that belonged to him. He would drag me into his arms on the stone steps after moon rituals, pin me against the wall in Blackthorn Keep’s long corridors, and bite the mark on the back of my neck beside the patrol trails in the border woods, as if he needed everyone to remember exactly whose Luna I was. I used to think that was his way of loving me. Rough. Possessive. Lacking tenderness. But love, all the same. Until one night, I stopped outside the council hall and heard an elder say in a furious voice, “Those charcoal sketches on the black market were released by your people, weren’t they? Every one of them is of you and Elena in bed. She has become a joke across the pack. Do you even understand what you’ve done?” There was a brief silence. Then Kane said, coldly, “She is the Luna the council chose for me. She is not the woman I wanted.” I stood frozen outside the door. All those years, I thought his roughness meant he loved me too fiercely to be gentle. But it was never love. It was humiliation. Punishment for taking the place of the woman he actually wanted. I lowered my eyes to the moonstone bracelet on my wrist, the one he had clasped there the day our mating contract was sealed. If that was all I had ever been to him, then I would leave.

The most reckless thing I had ever done was turn my back on the Moretti name and leave St. Clair Harbor with Lucian DeLuca when the Commission pushed his family out and he had nothing left. For three years, we lived in a drafty Brooklyn loft and ducked black Chevrolets on winter nights. Then Lucian fought his way back to the East Coast table. Everyone started calling him Mr. DeLuca again,and I became Mrs. DeLuca, the woman he swore he would always protect. Then Clara Voss appeared. She had once saved his life as a night nurse at an underground clinic, and Lucian never forgot it. He bought her a clinic, protected her family, and let her step, inch by inch, into the middle of our marriage. He said he still loved me, but he also said I was spoiled, jealous, and needed to learn my place. So I did. I signed the divorce papers and left New York behind. Mrs. DeLuca was dead. Evelyn Moretti had come back.

Three days ago, Damon Ashford marked me. The night he became Alpha, he sank his fangs into my neck under the moonlight. When his wolf blood mixed with mine, my wolf soul trembled violently. I thought the bond was taking root. I was too excited, too happy to tell the difference between real blood transfer and the simple sting of broken skin. This morning I went to City Hall without telling him. I wanted to pick up our certificate and frame it for our bedroom wall. I wanted to surprise him. The clerk checked the system, then looked up at me. "Whitmore, the mark on your neck is fake. There is no trace of wolf blood exchange." "Also, Ashford completed a formal registration with a woman named Clara Wellick two weeks ago." Under wolf law, a mark must be registered within seven days or it becomes invalid. I came to register, only to find I was never registered at all. I took off the scarf covering my neck and dropped it into the trash can outside City Hall. Standing on the steps, I sent my brother a message. Marcus, I’ll go with you for the closed medical research.

Five years ago, my family died in a car crash. My parents. My adopted sister, Liz. Everyone but me. They left behind grief, an empty house, and a debt so large it swallowed my life. When the collectors came, I turned to the only person I had left—my husband, Adrian. He told me he had cut ties with his own family to marry me and had nothing left. I believed him. For five years, I worked every job I could find, paid every dollar I earned, and told myself love was worth the suffering. When the balance dropped to its final $18,000, I signed up for a paid drug trial at a private clinic. They handed me a waiver, warned me about possible delayed reactions, and promised fast money if I swallowed the experimental dose. I thought it would buy us a new beginning. Instead, I came home early and heard Adrian on the phone. “Let Liz use the card. Evelyn still doesn’t know. She took away Liz’s money five years ago, so she has to earn every dollar back herself.” Then he laughed softly. “One more year, and her punishment is over.” That was how I learned the dead were alive. The debt was fake. My husband had never been poor. And the life I had fought so hard to survive was only a sentence they had given me.

My mother and sister never liked me. The only son they ever truly cared about was my older brother, Lucian Vieri. Before she married me, Serafina Valcieri, the only daughter of one of the most feared syndicates in the country, was always the one who stepped in when I was cornered, mocked, or blamed for things that were never mine to carry. She never said much. She just made people back off. Then she married me. Then, not long ago, Lucian shoved me off a ski slope. I said he meant to kill me. My mother called it an accident. My sister said he had only been trying to save me. Only Serafina believed me. When I woke up in the hospital, I heard voices outside the door. “Who told you to do it like that?” Serafina said, her voice low and cold. My mother answered in a panic. “Lucian’s leukemia can’t wait. If Cassian learns the baby isn’t his, everything falls apart.” Then Serafina said the words I still can’t forget. “I chose him, and I married him for my own reasons. But Lucian still needs this child. If anything had happened to Cassian, none of you would have walked away from it.” I stood there in silence, listening to every word. The child my wife was carrying was never mine. It had been conceived through IVF to save my brother. And the marriage I had trusted from the beginning had never belonged to me alone. I had spent my whole life coming second to Lucian. I just never thought Serafina would be the one to prove it. If no one truly wanted me, then I would leave.

For three years, I slept with my father’s head of security behind everyone’s back. Last night, with one hand at my throat and the other under my dress, he finally asked for a name, a future, something real. “After graduation,” I whispered against his mouth. “Let me finish my defense first. Then we’ll tell them.” “No.” By then I was shaking beneath him on the leather seat. “Then sooner. On my birthday next Friday. I’ll stop hiding then... Cassian, please—gentler...” That seemed to satisfy him. His mouth softened against my skin, and his voice dropped low against my ear. “Good girl. I just want you too much.” The next afternoon, I met my best friend for tea. The moment she opened the passenger door, she spotted the torn foil packet caught beside the seat and lifted a brow. “Bourbon cherry?” she said, already grinning. “That’s our company’s unreleased line. So this is what you’ve been hiding.” I snatched it up and shoved it into my bag. “It’s not public yet.” She frowned. “That’s the strange part. We only sent those samples to a handful of VIP clients.” Then she pulled out her phone. “I did a product follow-up with one of them yesterday, and his private account was basically a shrine to his girlfriend.” She turned the screen toward me. I only looked once, and my whole body went cold. The man in the photo had a line of Latin script inked low across his abdomen. I knew that tattoo. I had kissed it the night before. My fingers started shaking as I opened the private account Cassian had never shown me. April 4. The conservatory. Me and him. April 7. The upstairs studio. Me and him again. April 11—last night. A six-second clip in the back of the car.

On the night of our seventh anniversary, I was pulled into an emergency C-section. Before I could scrub in, my director caught my arm. “Gianna, the woman on that table is under the protection of a man powerful enough to ruin this hospital by morning. Do not make a mistake.” I glanced at the patient chart and frowned. Men in our world including Enzo were all obsessed with their wives. How could a man like that possibly have another woman he cherished? The surgery went well. Clean incision. Clean closure. No complications. I had barely exhaled in relief when a swarm of men in black dragged me to my knees outside the recovery room and forced me to my knees outside a private recovery suite.

When I was ten, my mother married into the Corleone family, and I followed her into that house. Before Vincent Corleone learned to hate me, he had once treated me like a real little sister. Later, he became the one who hurt me most. He believed my mother had driven his own mother to her death, and from that day on, he made sure I paid for it. Humiliation, contempt, cruelty—he never spared me any of it. Then Leo Moretti, Vincent’s closest friend, confessed that he loved me. I thought he was my way out. I was wrong. The morning after I gave him my first time, I overheard him speaking to Vincent behind a half-closed door. “I got the photos from her first night,” Leo said quietly. “Are you really going to make them public?” Vincent’s voice was cold enough to freeze my blood. “She owes my mother a life. If I can’t take that, then I’ll make sure she pays another way. I want her ruined.” That was the moment I understood. The tenderness had been fake. The love had been a trap. And the man I had trusted most had been waiting all along to destroy me. What they didn’t know was that two weeks earlier, I had already received an invitation from Professor Evans at the world’s top international medical research institute. So this time, I left first. And I was never coming back.