Book Living With The Enemy Novels & Stories

It was past two in the morning. Outside, warriors shouted orders, their voices tense. Feet pounded against the ground as people rushed toward the battlefield. My body reacted on instinct, already moving before my mind could fully catch up. Mia! I called, reaching for my wolf. I’m ready, she growled, her energy surging through me. I barely registered the cool night air as I rushed out the door. The scent of unfamiliar wolves hit me first—rogues and enemies, their presence thick and overwhelming. The howls grew louder, clashing with the sounds of snarls and snapping jaws. The enemy was here.

A desk that looked untouched for years. I closed the door behind me. My fingers hovered over the spines of books, not really reading, just feeling. My chest tightened when I saw one with a cracked leather cover and initials burned into the corner: J.D.V. My mother’s best friend. Gianna De Vera. The one we’d just buried. I pulled the book down. It wasn’t a novel—it was a journal. Dates ran across the top of each page, shaky handwriting below. I flipped to the back.

“End him before he ends you.” A long silence stretched between us, broken only by the faint hum of the restaurant’s piano music. Finally, Claudia exhaled slowly, snapping the book shut. “You’re really giving this to me?” “Yes.” “And what do you get out of it?” “Peace,” I murmured. “And maybe the chance to live without looking over my shoulder.” She looked at me for a long while before smiling faintly. “You’ve changed.” I met her eyes. “No. I just finally learned who the real enemy is.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt a bit of normalcy in doing something as basic as reading a book. I was finding peace in my enemy's presence.

The sex had been mind-blowing, his mouth on my clit, sucking until I bucked against his face; his tongue fucking into me before he replaced it with his cock, slamming home. After what felt like hours, I forced myself up. I dressed in soft leggings and an oversized sweater, something comfortable to hide in. Grabbing the book I'd abandoned weeks ago, a steamy romance that now felt tame compared to my reality. I curled up on the bed, trying to lose myself in the pages. A knock at the door jolted me. Before I could respond, it creaked open, and Roman stepped in, his presence filling the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that I could smell his clean scent.

She would respect Maera's decison. “I’m not sure how to explain it." Lillia casually sift through the books. "But it was the second time it’s happened. At first, I felt watched. I felt a heavy presence and an intense animosity. The last time, Regaleon had appeared and I thought it was him I felt again.” When her eyes set on one, she picked it up and held it. It read, “The Art of War: Mastering Complete Connection.” Oh… we are definitely reading this tonight. Fenris spoke softly.

He loved to be feared, and hell, I fear him. Rodrigo had a scar on his face that extended from his cheek to his jawline. He had a tattoo on his chest—It was a snake with its tongue out, its scales and curves were perfectly etched, and it looked so real. I saw it through his unbuttoned upper chest. "What do we do with the wife and kid?" "They're just collateral damage, they'd be my spoil,”He gave out an evil laugh, and his men followed suit. Rodrigo took us to his underground den, as his men dragged us in, my eyes flickered around the surroundings. We walked past some men packaging some powder, and we finally got to a dark room where the lady released my hand and pushed me inside.

Andalia's mother had managed to find an apartment nearby, in a pack that seemed both small and widespread, almost deserted, from what Andalia had heard. The area was rumored to be a domain for witches, but she cared little for such things. As long as no one paid attention to them, she had no reason to worry. Andalia had never feared witches, especially not those who lingered around werewolf packs. They were likely of lower rank, given that witches and wolves had long been enemies, a history she had yet to fully understand.

Homey. There were no glinting chandeliers or polished marble floors. The space was low-lit, warm, and masculine. A dark leather couch dominated the living room, draped with a fleece throw that looked like it had been dragged off a bed. A punching bag hung in the corner beside a dartboard riddled with holes. The kitchen was neat, almost suspiciously so—counters scrubbed clean, cabinets bare except for protein powder and three unopened bottles of whiskey. But it was the small details that threw me. A stack of books slumped against the wall—wolf history texts, leadership manuals, and, bizarrely, a slim volume of poetry wedged between them like a guilty secret.

The force of gravity in the room seemed to suddenly increase, threatening to drag her to the floor. Get over it. You knew damn well this was going to happen. Just . . . move on. She looked over her shoulder to finally take in the rest of the space. Her father’s bed lay inside one of the corners, the mattress a size too small for a man of his height and covered with the same camo blanket that rested on her own. A large bookcase lined one wall, its contents a hodgepodge of classic and paranoid—“Survivalist,” Emma corrected herself—literature. She scanned the titles. Finding Tom Sawyer and The Anarchist’s Cookbook resting beside each other conjured demented scenes of the scamp lobbing improvise