Bunga Kematian Mga Nobela at Kwento

"You!" Wade bristled at my comeback. Then, with a click of his tongue, he said, "You're just a pawn she's using to get to me. My divorce will be final any day now, and she'll drop you just like that. Don't believe me? Just watch." I grabbed the steaming kettle and filled a cup with hot water. "Don't flatter yourself. What do you think you are, anyway?" Livid, Wade grabbed the steaming mug in front of him and geared up to douse me with it. "Don't get too cocky, Thomas!"

“A change of clothes, Alpha. Plain, rough spun. No pack insignia. Nothing that looked like ours, or like any neighboring pack. Just neutral. A small knife. Also plain, no identifying marks, no embellishments. Very utilitarian. Three pieces of paper, folded. I didn’t open them, Alpha. I came straight to Bailey. And… a flower.” My jaw tightened. “A flower?” “Yes, Alpha. A dried one. Dark red. Like… like the ones…” Her voice trailed off, fear coloring her face. She didn’t want to say it. Bailey, who had been listening intently, leaned forward. “What kind of flower, Leila? What does a dark red dried flower mean?” Her voice was barely a whisper. My gaze was still fixed on Leila. “Tell her, Leila.

She goes where she has always gone. "I found a ledger," I say, and my voice comes out in the low careful dialect I have learned from listening to her, the register of a woman asking another woman to carry what she cannot carry herself. "In the chapel vault. It has an authorization code for a death that happened two years ago, a death that was ordered from inside this family, and the code matches the payroll sheets I transcribed in my first week. The same block letters. The same purple ink. A single initial." Nonna Carmela taps her forefinger twice on the stone lip of the well.

Vernon had returned, looking exhausted. He was even holding a bouquet of fresh flowers. He walked toward me with no trace of guilt or remorse. "Avril, I brought you your favorite roses." Red roses represented sincere and passionate love. Right now, those flowers looked like a joke in Vernon's hands. I accepted the roses. Thinking that I was no longer angry, Vernon began to explain. "It's Peggy Cahill. She's been diagnosed with bone cancer. All she wants is to marry me.

If there's anything I know about our world, it's that the need to relive your victory is far too great that sometimes the majority toss away common sense just to have the opportunity to gloat. I hope this would be no different. I hope I would be knuckles deep in some bastard's stomach by this time tomorrow. The attendant shakes his head, his entire face covered in sweat as he looks at me and looks away repeatedly. Fucking pussy. Yet, I don't blame him. It isn't everyday one could see a member or even two of The Black Rose without dying afterwards. But then again, it isn't every time one sees a member of The Black Rose in a fucking freezer.

Layla's fans sang her praises, saying that she was kind, beautiful, and the best sister in the world. It was raining on the day they cremated my remains. Layla carried the urn containing my ashes and pretended to shed a few tears. I moved toward her. Then, I tried to punch and kick Layla to try and get her hands off me. It was so revolting. Everything about this world sickened me. I dropped to the ground after having exhausted myself. Then, I watched as they put me inside a small box. The words, "Our dearest daughter, Hazel Larson", could be seen on the rectangular tombstone. How ironic.

“I was pissed they did this to me and pissed Jared fucked me over so I said fuck it and fuck you. You mated the bitch and killed Jared. I have held Scarlet responsible for a long time. She left our pack and deserted us and then showed back up as you as her mate? Now she acts like she cares? So for the past few months, I decided to teach all you people a lesson. Don’t fuck over your hired helpers. After I wiped out Montana, Washington was next. Or Is…” “What did you make to put in our water?” I asked through clenched teeth. “A liquid form of cobalt and magnesium. At high enough levels, you will die of an overdose. Shut down major organs and eventually the low blood pressure will kill you. Pai

My mother screamed—the correct reaction. “What the fuck?” Sara, my sister, gasped as she walked into the room and squatted next to our father. A large puddle of blood had formed by his face, seeping out from his mouth and nostrils. She pulled a dart out of his arm and smelled it. “Wolfsbane,” she said. “How ironic,” I responded. “What?” She looked at me, confusion on her face. “Well, it was his idea to use wolfsbane darts in battle. It’s pretty ironic that that’s how he dies in the end, eh?”

The glow in those eyes were growing brighter, and Annabel had this uncomfortable thought somewhere in her mind that if the sculpture got too angry, it could explode, killing her. “No.” Her voice was weaker this time. Still, she could not bring herself to killing a man that had done nothing to him. You just have to think it. What? Think it. Wish him dead. Make it happen. The voice snaked all the way into her mind, caressing it. Slowly, she was getting overpowered by whatever it was the statue was doing to her. She could not fight something that could speak in her mind, something that could, perhaps, control her mind.

Gerald Dawson, my brother-in-law, is losing a lot of blood and urgently needs a transfusion. He has a rare blood type, Rh-negative, and Brian Johnson, my wife's first love, happens to be the closest person with the matching blood type. In my past life, I beg Brian to save Gerald. He gets lightheaded after donating his blood, misses a step, and tumbles down the stairs, breaking his neck and dying instantly. Gemma Dawson, my wife, pins his death entirely on me. She takes me bungee jumping on my birthday and directly pushes me off the platform. "Brian suffered so much when he died! You're going to pay it back a hundredfold, Simon!" I have been reborn, and Gemma chooses her first love over me