Burned Hopkins Novel Novels & Stories

Lana sighed. Lana almost tempted me to show her. That's when I decided to burn every book I owned. My neighbor Presley was never the same after the police and Bruce questioned Jude. It was late at night and I used my firepit to burn my books. The smell wasn't inviting like hickory charcoal. Presley was cleaning his grill as he often does. He tried to peek my way, but once he saw me glaring at him, he stopped what he was doing and hurried inside.

I thought as my head turned to a small window in the room. I saw smoke. I ran towards it, and there I saw the book being burned in a small fire. I quickly ran outside, but it was too late when I got there. Fire consumed the entire book. Madison had burned the book. I cried. How will I ever learn about my pack and my mom anymore?

he said, eyes already gone dark. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Time stopped. Matteo yelled something. Lazaro’s finger curled. And I knew he was going to pull the trigger. To be continued... Chapter 38 – Burn Them All Amara The city burns. Flames eat through rooftops like hungry mouths, smoke veils the sky until the sun itself disappears. Sirens scream like dying violins. Bullets cut through air thick with the scent of gasoline, blood, and betrayal.

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.

He had always been the solitary type. Back in high school, he had had no shortage of admirers. When he got to college, girls flocked to him like fish in a river, too many to count. His cousin was like a clueless bachelor, with zero interest in the whole love game. However, as one would say, when the old house went up in flames, it would really blaze. The others got curious too. "Who's the girl? Do we know her? Have we met her?" "You'll see," Stephen said. That shut down any further questions.

The air in the car is too hot, too heavy and too much that even opening of the door does nothing to soothe the burning inside. I feel like my body is on fire. Their attention always burns me up and I love every second of it, it's all I've ever wanted…all I've ever needed. “Jennie you must be really tired, you look wrecked” my stepfather says as we step out of the car and I am being supported by my stepbrothers to stand straight.

Author’s Note to the Reader Dear Reader, What you are about to step into is not just a love story. It’s a tangled web of passion, betrayal, secrets, and the quiet ache of discovering the truth behind the people we think we know. Jacqueline’s journey is one many of us know too well, the journey of holding on when we should let go, of chasing stability while craving fire, of mistaking comfort for love. Her story unfolds in layers: through the haunting grip of her dreams, the unraveling of a once-promising engagement, and the magnetic pull of a man who exists both in her subconscious and in the shadows of her waking life.

The luxurious, pristine white manor was now shrouded in thick smoke as it was engulfed by flames. I threw away the key, tore off the necklace around my neck, and threw it into the fire. Then, listening to the roaring flames behind me, I left the villa where I had grown up. I thought, 'Atlas, let's never meet again.'

She thought about her mother. She thought about the fire. She let herself go back into it — the heat, the smoke, the pine beam, the way her fingers had looked when she finally saw them in the light outside. She thought about crawling. About getting up anyway. About walking north with nothing and nowhere to go and the burning in her chest that she had not yet understood. She let it hurt. She let it convert.

The wolfsbane draught did not just burn. It hit deeper. It tore through the weakest, most broken part of me. I folded over, coughing so hard my body shook. My chest burned. My skull throbbed. Then my wolf took the blow. I felt it. The part of me that had already been damaged, already failing, buckled again. My scent turned wild. My breathing broke apart. The room swam black at the edges. This was not just pain. My wolf was being hurt again. It had never recovered from the fire.