"burn Those Who Burned Me!" Novels & Stories

"She was the best thing in my life and living each day without her hurt more than you'd ever know. Then fast forward to that day. We were the only ones at home. I was in my room sleeping and the next thing I remain was the feeling of being scalded all over. I opened my eyes to see that my room was on fire. Serious fire, I couldn't even see anything except the fire. Panic and worry took over. I ran to where the door was admist the fire but it wouldn't open, wouldn't budge. My skin was starting to burn and someone was screaming maniacally. That person was me." God! My heart broke into a million pieces for her, for the small girl who did not deserve to go through what she had gone through. She

They simply needed to see that she had survived—and that meant they could too. Behind her, Arthur readied the ceremonial fire. As twilight fell, he raised a torch to the great iron brazier. The flames caught quickly, dancing like a song across the wind. Michael stepped forward. “This fire does not burn to destroy,” he said, his voice carrying over the crowd. “It burns to warm. To light. To remind us that the truth, once ignited, will never sleep again.” The villagers began placing tokens into the flames—letters of past sorrows, strips of cloth from old uniforms, torn remnants of church propaganda. The fire accepted all.

When she found the inner part of my thigh, she dug her nails deep into the flesh, making me scream from the pain while tears welled in my eyes. However, I wasn't able to move my lower body, so there was no way for me to dodge or avoid her hands. "Go on. Keep on screaming at the police. Nobody else is going to pay attention to a cripple like you," she said. "Even if you were to die in the fire, other people would just say that I was just too unlucky to have married a paralyzed, good-for-nothing troublemaker like you!" It hurt so badly that I began gasping loudly for air. I turned to look at Dakota next to me and said, "Why… Dakota…"

"And him! All three of his core surgeries? I paid to have someone else perform them! They're nothing without me!" The last scraps of dignity holding the team together were ripped apart completely. Each of them was desperate to strip the others bare, just to lessen their own share of the blame. I sat at a safe distance, unscrewing my second bottle of mineral water as I took a slow, languid sip. In the meantime, Matt couldn't endure the bone-eating agony of the toxin any longer. He started screaming as he smashed a wine glass against the floor, grabbed the largest shard, and slashed it toward his wrist.

The words echoed like a brand burned beneath my skin: Moonchild. My ribs pulsed. Once. Twice. Hard. What’s happening?

"Do you remember how you burnt the kitchen the first time you made me soup? "When it was your birthday, I carried you on my back up 18 flights of stairs just because you said that you wanted to see the stars." A tear dropped on the back of my hand, and it felt surprisingly hot. "I know that I was a jerk and that I deserve this. But Ayla, my love for you has always been genuine." He looked up at me with crimson eyes, looking like a convict waiting to be sentenced.

My eyes flickered with hurt, and my heart burned with jealousy. “Because I wanted to be sure that he wasn't lying to me.” She yelled.

His eyes burned into mine. “Apologize,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “I will never apologize. I did it on purpose,” I snapped. His hand cracked against my ass sharp, stinging. I cried out in pain. “Let me go!” I struggled, trying to shove him off. “You let your tongue wag like fire, little one.” Another smack. Harder. Tears pricked my eyes. “I’m not little. I’m not your kitten. Go to hell with your nicknames,” I hissed.

Demon says. And for the first time in days, I fall asleep between them… without fear. Because if the world burns, we’re going to burn together. And I swear on everything I have left—no one is going to tear us apart.

I took a bullet for Vittorio, and it left my right hand permanently damaged. After that, I stepped back and supported him from behind the scenes. For eight years, I stood beside him as he rose from a low-level underling to Don. On his first day as Don, he had my portrait hung in every church he owned, to show the world who I was and how much I mattered. When I told him we had too much blood on our hands, he began going to church every day to confess and pray for us both. Once, I offered to go with him. He only shook his head, his expression solemn. "You got blood on your hands because of me. None of it is your fault. Let me carry all the sins alone." I was so moved that I believed him