Burn Before Reading Novels & Stories

So with all honesty, I finally pronounce, “Indeed, I am.” And the crowd gets heated and the chanting becomes louder. Sabrina herself stands up and says, “Damn! Damn! Sparks, you really know how to spice things up, ei?” She breathes, and says while standing in front of me, “Didn’t you know I read the whole book? And I was baffled, and was I don’t know, flabbergasted with all the positions you mentioned with your… Ooops, later–” I laugh so hard and almost forgot about my poise, but I try to compose myself while holding off my laughter, “Well, at least, I made a lot of people happy and educate how it meant to be a virgin for thirty-five fucking years!”

He snapped furious, “I didn't ask to lose a fucking leg. I didn’t ask to live with the constant fear of stepping wrong and hurting myself or the pain that invades me after something like that. I didn't ask for the nightmares that refuse to leave my dreams. Do you have any idea how horrible it is to have a fucking nightmare and end up on the floor because you forget you're missing a leg because you wake up and try to get up? I hate it, Vivienne. I hate it! I didn't ask for this!” “You didn't ask for it, but you did look for it,” I replied, my words stunning him. “You looked for it when you decided to be a firefighter, Jacob. You looked for it on every rescue you went to, in every fire. The fa

Then the poetry. Handwritten. Sometimes sonnets. Sometimes messy, jagged pieces that felt like they’d been ripped straight from his chest. One read: If I could be the rain that slips down your shoulder, If I could be the sky you look up at in rage I’d let you strike me down, again and again, If only to stay close to your fire. I threw that one in the trash. Three hours later, it was tucked inside the cash register. And then came the books. First editions. Stories I’d loved. Stories I’d once read aloud to Damien in the Blackwood library when we were young and tangled in something that felt like forever.

Hell no! My name isn't Blackwood, the doctor must have assumed I took up Damien's name since he's now my stepfather. I was too weak to argue so I let it slide. “Let's check what's going on with you.” He said and moved closer to me. “She clearly has an infection. That is the reason for the fever and why she's burning up so much. Miss, do you have any infected wounds?” The doctor asked me and I nodded in the affirmative. I opened the blanket and showed him the cut I had from the tree at the cemetery yesterday.

Her chest felt too tight for her lungs, like her bones were a cage closing in. “Stop it,” she said, backing into the bedpost again. “Stop reading me—stop feeling me—stop whatever you’re doing.” He flinched as if she’d stabbed him a second time. “I’m not doing anything,” he said. “You’re doing it. You’re the one… burning through me.” Burning. That word made something inside her twist violently. Images flashed unbidden—torches in the clearing, his eyes in the dark, her own rage licking up like flame when she’d driven the spear into him.

I interrupted. Her cheeks went red, and her eyes brightened. With a groan, I shook my head. My wolf was growling at me even before I said, “It’s not worth crying over.” The book blew up. Every page lit on fire as it burst outward, flying in every direction. A chunk of the flaming spine hit me square in my chest. I batted it away, yelping in shock. There was a slight burn where it’d hit me, but nothing bad. I stomped out the flames and made my way to the other bits of burning paper, putting out the fires.

⸻ Then suddenly— The page burst into flames. The book screamed. ⸻ Reality screamed. ⸻ The sky cracked. ⸻ And the name vanished. ⸻ Gone. ⸻ Destroyed. ⸻ Forever. ⸻ 💔 ⸻ 🌙 The Last Message The burning page released one final sentence. ⸻ A sentence directed only at Ilyaan. ❤️ ⸻ The letters glowed brightly. ⸻ Then slowly faded. ⸻ “The answer was never a word.”

The scorching heat was nothing like the cold that seeped from skin into bone, from bone into the soul. I raised my hand and pressed my fingertips against the window. The glass was warm, and so was my hand. I could feel my blood flowing reassuringly under my skin. My heart was still beating steadily. Everything was alive. I was alive. The assistant flipped through her documents beside me before suddenly asking, "Ms. Scott, when you were in that team back home, you were… miserable, weren't you?" I withdrew my hand and tilted my head slightly to look at her, my interest piqued. "Why would you think that?"

He started flipping the pages and his eyes scanned meticulously word by word. I was amazed with his reading speed and I leaned in to wait for his explanation. But then, his eyes grew visibly wide as his cheeks turned red. Once he reached the last page, he closed the book in silence. “So, what was it all about?” I asked. Then his hand glowed as I gasped, as he cast a small fire on his hand directly to the book as it was completely being burned. It only took a second before the book was burned into crisp. “W-What was that for?!”

I continued, softer now, almost conversational, “I can think of a few names that would fit you perfectly.” Her chest rose and fell faster than before, breath shallow, uneven. The silence stretched tight between us, humming with something unnamed—something dangerous. Not touch. Not yet. Just presence. Just pressure. Fuck—I could practically taste her arousal from across the room. I’d torn through a good chunk of the book she’d been reading the other night. Tragedies of True Hearts. Filthy. Twisted. The kind of story people pretended to hate while secretly devouring every page. A girl caught between a stalker and his brother—meant to choose, only to be claimed by both instead.