Novel & Cerita Burning Bridges Book

I was late morning when Tristan entered the room pulling my head of the book, I looked at him in slight amazement. “We have the conference call in twenty minutes.” He greeted stepping into the room as I looked up. “What?” He asked and I held up the book. “Tristan, this book.” I stated not really knowing how to explain it. “It’s a novel, just a story that I found in the library, but it’s based on a family of werewolves, the two daughters, twins, were born with a special gift, they could produce fire and ice.” I uttered and watched as his brows rose. “They later became joint alphas of the their pack. Do you think this could be the story of the alpha twins that we were looking for?”

A transfer agreement, a so-called wedding gift, trading my freedom for a decade of peace between the Marshalls and the Harlows. My fingers went white-knuckled as I read. John was not just after my future; he was auctioning me off like a peace treaty bonus prize. Those docks were more than just a thank-you for eighteen years of upbringing; they were a fifty-year sentence to a life I did not choose. I shot back a reply, short and not-so-sweet: [Just wait.] Sophomore year rolled around, and Mom's shaky voice came through the line: "Harriet, your father, he's been hit in a dockside ambush, he's half-paralyzed."

"A strange scent for a girl who’s supposed to be a 'living bridge.' Or did Luciano forget to tell you that bridges are meant to be walked on?" "Bridges are also meant to be burned, Dante," I countered, my voice surprising me with its steady venom. I looked him dead in the eye, the way Luciano had taught me. "And I’ve seen enough fire to know exactly how much heat it takes to turn a man like you into ash." Dante’s eyes flared with a sudden, violent light. He spun me hard, his hand sliding lower than was appropriate, his fingers digging into the velvet of my hip. "You have spirit. It’s a pity. The Wolves don't like spirit. They like silence."

The first pages of the book were typically a story of my mother's childhood, teenage life and all that, nothing worth reading. But as I went further, my eyes caught a text written in bold letters. “The one to mend the bridge between two worlds.” “What does that even mean?” I scoffed, reading further. After about ten minutes of glancing through each page aimlessly, I was fed up. “This is trash,” I muttered, closing the book. “Waste of my precious time,” I added, my face twisted in a frown. But just before I dropped the book, a little paper fell from it, landing on my thighs.

Maybe the facade only looks small with the help of optical illusion. I didn't speak. I looked around and there were many books scattered there. There is also a cauldron over the fire inside the fireplace. Something was brewing and the ladle was spinning and mixing the liquid. I tried not to be amazed but even so, I was still amazed by everything I was seeing. "Sicario, is he the one you say is your grandson?" Merlin asked Grandpa. Grandpa smiled. He looks proud like I am some kind of a prized possession.

"Seraphina..." ​She backed away from him as the sound grew louder. The second Seraphina screamed, pointing downward. "Look!" ​The white fire spread from Seraphina's mark across the stone floor, racing until it reached the other Seraphina. Their marks connected, forming a blazing bridge of white flame between them. The ancient queen staggered backward, her face contorting in horror. "No." ​Caelan whipped around toward them. "Stop it." ​Neither Seraphina could move, pinned by the searing energy as the white fire climbed higher, dragging their consciousnesses into a violent, spinning vortex of shared history.

“Because I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. Once you decide something matters, you burn every bridge to have it.” He met her gaze, defiance flickering. “And you’ve never done the same?” Her smirk returned, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Difference is, I usually burn bridges I can afford. You? You’re staring at the foundations of two kingdoms and wondering how hot the fire will get.”

Which means the real storm hasn’t even begun yet. Because when enemies begin hunting bridges— They don’t stop until they control them. Or destroy them. And right now the most important bridge in existence is a stubborn girl standing in another realm who refuses to be anything less than exactly who she is. I can’t help smiling slightly. Gods help anyone who tries to control her. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned since meeting Seraphina— It’s that bridges don’t break easily. But the worlds connected to them might.

The rules I have learned so far are as follows: o Rule One: Bridges are not allowed to use magic for self-benefit, hence why I am broke. o Rule Two: Bridges are restricted in using magic or thought to cast vengeance or harm to those they have bridged, even unintentionally. o Rule Three: Bridges must endure selected traumatic hardships to better acclimate them to various scenarios of pain, fear, hope, and despair, hence my PTSD, anxiety, and depression. o Rule 4: Bridges cannot undo, tear down, or destroy, by any means, the bridges they laid for others. This basically also plays into the no vengeance or recourse allowed rule.

It was ugly and fast and the kind of fight that doesn't leave much room for thinking, just instinct and training and the cold, focused fury that had been building in my chest since the moment Marcus grabbed Nora's arm back in that mill. I put the first one down hard enough that he didn't get back up right away. The second came faster, smarter, clearly aware of what happened to the first, and this one gave me more trouble, driving me back a step on boards that groaned dangerously under both our combined weight. Somewhere behind him, the other two were shouting something to each other, coordinating, and I caught one word clear enough to understand even over the fight and the river noise. *Fire