Burning Elegance Novels & Stories

It was as if she carried her own starlight, and the room itself bent around her presence. Her hair was flawless, not a single strand out of place despite the chaos of the evening. The night had tried to touch her, but failed utterly; her makeup remained immaculate, her features untouched by fatigue. Her eyes burned with an inner fire, a dangerous glint that dared anyone to look away. Her lips curved into a smile that was all promise and warning, sweet as poison and sharp as broken glass. She didn’t just command attention—she demanded it, and the room obeyed before she even uttered a word.

I move my hips side to side and keep my posture in a way that displays how slim my beautiful waist is, I grab my hair up in pony tail and put it down, letting the silky locks cascade down my back and cover up the sexy back I just showed them. I turn around again and go down on my knees still smiling sensual and caressing my body with my own hands. I run my fingers through my box-dyed but still lush hair, and take the fingers down my throat, trailing them down slowly to my cleavage and then taking it lower, I squeeze my full boob and involuntarily moan slips past my lips as my eyes meet his. Boss is in the club tonight. No wonder. No wonder the whole place feels electrically charged and buzzi

The air was thick, suffocatingly hot, and choking with thick, black billows of smoke that stung my eyes. I was small, so small, my legs stumbling frantically across a polished hardwood floor that was rapidly being swallowed by angry, roaring orange flames. *“Celeste! The perimeter breach has reached the west wing!”* a man’s voice yelled, deep and panicked, echoing through the burning halls of a magnificent, ancient estate that bore no resemblance to the suburban house on Elm Street. *Flash.* A woman. Beautiful, with hair the color of midnight and eyes that burned with the unmistakable, brilliant silver luminescence of a true Moonblood Sovereign.

Her eyes flashed with a psychotic, terrifying glee as she watched the men begin unscrewing the caps of the metal canisters, splashing gasoline over the cutting tables, the fabric rolls, and the white roses sitting in the central lounge. ​She pulled a heavy brass lighter from her pocket, flicking the wheel. A bright, dancing orange flame burst to life in the dark, reflecting wildly in her bloodshot, unhinged eyes. ​"Burn," Selene whispered into the quiet night, her voice dripping with pure, venomous malice. "Burn it all to hell, Ariana." ​She tossed the flaming lighter through the open door onto the gas-soaked floorboards. ​A massive, violent wall of orange fire erupted instantly, roaring thr

The last trace of affection finally disappeared, and all that was left was scorn. I skipped through this section, because I had no patience to read through Julius’ “noble” actions. I skipped to the last two pages. This was the last chapter.

Oh. I looked back at the woman. She was beautiful, but not in the obvious way, not the kind of beauty that arrived first and flattened everything else behind it. It was something more deliberate than that, more controlled. Her hair was a pale expensive blonde, too light to be natural, too well maintained to be accidental, bleached and polished within an inch of its life. It should have looked harsh. It didn’t. It suited her in the same calculated way everything else about her seemed to. She wore elegance like instinct — nothing loud, nothing careless, every movement measured, every gesture economical. She held herself like someone who had spent years learning exactly how much of herself to r

They were so in sync. “So smart,” he whispered with one thrust. His breath brushed her ear. “So beautiful.” Another deep push. “So mine.” The words matched his rhythm. Skin slapped quietly against skin. Elowen wrapped her legs around him. Her heels dug into his lower back. She was owning him. She gripped his shoulders. Sweat made their skin slick. Every move he made inside of her increased her want for him.

“Well, that’s definitely luck.” “And look at her attitude. Mr. Salvatore even hosted an anniversary banquet for her, but she’s late. He’s been waiting for ages. So arrogant—she clearly doesn’t know her place. No wonder Mr. Salvatore can’t move on from his first love, Ms. Madonna. Ms. Madonna is so much better than that lowly woman!” “Okay, okay. Calm down. I only asked one question, and you’ve said so much. Be careful—others might hear you.”

A lighter flicked, and orange flame climbed through the white petals while a thread of black smoke spiralled toward the ornate ceiling. I should have felt humiliation, and perhaps some distant part of me did, but what rose through my chest instead was a hot and almost joyful fury. They had not even let her touch them. They had burned my apology in a public lobby, in front of the doorman and the courier and a dozen residents, and they had done it on the orders of a man who believed he could erase me by smoke. The passenger door opened without a knock, and the scent of Desire's expensive perfume filled the car before she settled into the seat. She wore a black coat belted at the waist, and she

a smooth, velvety purr cut through the roaring smoke of the battlefield. Elena Petrova walked directly through the ruined entrance of the penthouse, stepping over the splintered mahogany double doors with a slow, aristocratic elegance. She wore a long, flowing charcoal wool coat that billowed around her ankles, her midnight-black hair catching the cold light from the broken ceiling perfectly. Her silver-grey eyes were absolute pools of freezing, unyielding calculation as she looked at the carnage.