Brows By Thread Novels & Stories

Ishtar offered. "No!" I exclaimed and stretched out my other arm. "Now at least I know what to expect, and I'll try to control myself." "I'll just make one thread," Ishtar informed me, and soon I saw the golden thread, and it brushed against my skin. Every hair on my body stands on end, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from letting out a groan of disgust. Two minutes pass before the thread finally dissolves, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

My brows furrow in confusion, nevertheless, I keep my words to myself. “Hold this, twist it around your wrist and don’t let it go,” he commands with pure dominance. I’m not used to his sudden changes of tone but surprisingly, it turns me on. “It’s a DIY, but it will work. I’m not sure I can actually use this with you,” he adds. Did he use this with someone else? I feel a pang in my chest. I twist the tassel around my wrist. I slightly pull and hold on to it—it works and doesn’t hurt. It’s made of two sets of polyester ropes braided together. I blow a few deep breaths to normalize my frantic heartbeat when the threads dangle and caress my skin.

The writer of the article was in the top left corner of the page, and in it, he was talking about how he believes it is fully possible to bend time and pass through, letting yourself in through different horizons, at time either long past, or never experienced. He talked about the existence of the past and the future, just that they were at a different place from the present. Like three different houses, separated from the now. But I wasn't sure if this was not me in one of those far off, distant places, separated from the present. I swallowed. "How on earth did this happen to me?" I thought out loud, pushing my fingers into my hair. To him, time was like an interloping of threads, all relat

"What's the matter? Scared of heights?" "He did this," Elion shouted at Kieran. "You cut the rope, Kieran!" "I don't know what you're talking about!" Kieran yelled back, but his smile faltered. "It's an old bridge! Stop stalling!" Cale looked at the knot. The black thread—the true Death Thread—was winding around the cut, pulling at the fibers. Fate was tugging on the loose end Kieran had created. I have to hold it, Cale thought.

Framed by delicate lashes, her gaze holds a quiet power, inviting connection and understanding. High cheekbones, sculpted by ancestry, lend regality to her visage. The bridge of her nose, a slender arc, carries the echoes of her lineage. A full, expressive mouth, adorned with a natural gloss, reflects a symphony of emotions waiting to be shared with the world. Adorning her head is a crown of tightly coiled curls, each strand a celebration of individuality. The curls, like spring tendrils, frame her face with an unrivaled natural elegance. It's a testament to the versatility and beauty found in the embrace of her natural hair.

I hate the thread. Yet, a flicker of curiosity burns. It’s learning. I can feel it learning from us. From our bond. From love. I glance at Cain. His jaw is tight, his muscles trembling with controlled fury, and something in my chest twists. Protectiveness, longing, fear, love. All tangled. The thread reaches for that knot in me. It sees the parts I want to hide. I growl silently, focusing. Not mine. Not yours. Ours. And the bond responds. A flare of light along my veins, a surge that sings with the pulse of our love. The thread recoils. Not gone, but hesitant. Cautious. Curious.

The chamber was lit by nothing but threads of light, glowing faintly in the dim air like veins of starlight pulled from the heavens. They floated around Zara’s body in delicate arcs, twisting as though alive, responding to her trembling hands. Every tug drew a spark, every knot a hiss of heat. She bit down against the pain, but her fingers would not stop. The threads were burning her from the inside out, stealing fragments of her strength with every movement, but still she worked.

I fall to my knees, and the rage and helplessness crash over me in a wave so brutal I want to claw my own heart out just to make it stop. And then I see it. The wound. It's there in the bond-space, same as it is in the real world—a jagged tear in my side, edges black and puckered. But here, I can see what it really is. Threads. Black threads, oily and alive, crawling out of the wound like roots. They're wrapping around the bond—the golden cord that ties me to Alyssa—and every time they tighten, the light dims. They're trying to strangle it.