Novel & Cerita Boondocks Dreads

It keeps the fire inside me hungry. We don't speak of the city. We don't speak of the past that remains locked behind a wall of white mist in my head. Instead, we spend the hours in a silent, physical communion. Clyde sits on a mossy log, and I sit between his massive thighs, leaning my back against his chest while his large, calloused hands slowly braid my silver hair back from my face. He weaves thick, tight plaits—not the delicate, crown-like loops Diana wears to look like nobility, but a warrior’s braid, designed to keep my vision clear when the blood starts to flow.

Goldie hit the ground, the oozing stump of his left leg cut off at the knee, once fluffy tail now docked. "You fucking animal!" He'd shifted back, blood loss weakening him without the influence of a full moon. He looked like the type of man that would try to sell you a used mattress over Craigslist. "What kind of sick bastard loads with pure silver?" The barrel pressed against Blondielock's forehead. In all my twenty-six years of living on this earth, I had never seen the infamous Midnight Cowboy. He was smaller than I expected.

The door opened reviewing three boys. One with low cut and the other two with afro high cut hairstyles. Upon seeing the scene inside,the boys at the door were staring at the two with mouth agape, it's not like it's every day you come across such scenes. Adiguin had to coughs before speaking. "James so you've been here and we were searching for you all over the place". James is backing them to cover Serena's flushed face. "Why look for me when you know am somewhere in the school. Why do you always have to act dump all the time ?".

He is scared, and it moves through me like cold water. My legs feel weak, but I lock my knees and stay standing. The ground under us hums low, steady as a heartbeat. Then the trees shudder and the white bark splits open all at once. Dark sap pours out and gathers at our feet, and from the largest pool, a shape rises. It is not the thing from before. It is a man in a crown made of roots, his face young and old at the same time, his eyes the same gold as Cael's.

The letter came from an unexpected direction. Not from the Black Hollow territory or from any of the packs in the immediate region. From the north, from a territory that Darius had monitored at a distance for years without having a direct cause for engagement. A pack called the Iron Ridge, led by an alpha named Corvan who had held his position for twelve years and whose reputation in the northern territories was the kind of reputation that traveled ahead of the person it belonged to. Jaden brought the letter on a Wednesday morning with the expression he wore when something required Darius's immediate attention but was not an emergency. Darius read it at his desk and read it again and then ca

The Warden came downhill like a force of nature. Snow erupted beneath its claws as it charged, tearing through drifts that reached its chest. The mountain trembled under its weight. Warriors scrambled to clear its path, their blue-flamed blades flashing through the storm as they fought to reform their lines. Lyra barely registered any of it. The vision from the Bone Crown still clung to her mind with stubborn clarity. Two boys standing before the gate beneath the palace. Two terrified children bound in chains and offered to something ancient and hungry. Not one sacrifice. Two.

"Honey, I'm thrilled you want to take the reins, but you're a Luna. You have to help Malcolm lead his pack. Now you want to run the company, too. Isn't that a lot to shoulder for one person?" I paused, a lump forming in my throat, but my resolve was ironclad. "I'm ending my mate bond with Malcolm."

Goosebumps had already drenched my skin and my heartbeat could be heard from a thousand miles. Dreadlocks dangling in his rigid face. Tattoos running through his arms. Braces that gave him a more scary edge. Dressed in just a white tank top and ripped baggy denim pants. Eyes so red you'd know he's been on some substance all day. A fucking addict and also Mad Dog's right-hand man. If he's here, then definitely Mad Dog is here. I clenched my thighs in fear that I might pee on myself.

Do it, call him through the bond, Becca said. “I hope this works,” I said and placed my hands on Drago's chest. I pulled on the bond that held us, the golden thread that connected us, and then my mate opened his eyes. Drago was disoriented, but he couldn't help but hug him tightly. “You're okay!” I said cheerfully. “What happened?” asked Drago, and then he saw the shadows and heard the darkspawn's attempts to bring down the dome. “Wasn't it a dream?”

And now, thirty minutes later, I’m still not ready. I dig through my closet with one hand while swiping through my phone with the other, distracting myself with the endless stream of comments about the interview. Most are positive, but the words barely register. My hand lands on a pale blue sleevelet shirt, the soft fabric sliding between my fingers like silk. Its turquoise side chains and elbow buttons gleam faintly in the glow of my bedside lamp. I pair it with turquoise cigarette shorts and my trusty wood combat boots. The boots are deliberate—comfortable, familiar. They match the tan cap I plan to wear over my Dutch braid and side lace braid, styled with painstaking care.