Caleb Gordon Merch Novels & Stories

“You want to challenge me, fine, be in the arena in one hour and I will make sure all the people are there to watch me kill you and take that trident from you.” “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you, I mean, if she can keep it from me, who do you think you are to take it from her?” everyone turned to the entrance and there stood Caleb. He was bloodied and one could tell that he was coming from battle. “Who are you?” asked Nigal with his eyebrow raised, he knew that Caleb was not one of his, each clan had his markings and Caleb did not have the markings of his clan. “Oh, sorry for being rude.” He swam forward and when he got close to Nigal, he extended his hand. “I am Caleb the ruthless, forme

“Sit down Iggy.” Caleb spoke calmly. The eighteen-year old eased himself into the chair opposite of Caleb with wary eyes. He rarely ever got a call from the Duncan pack which is something he couldn’t be more grateful for, the last time had been two years ago so he wondered why they’d need him again. Yes, they did keep in touch and he knew of a couple of their cubs who had attended his high school and still dropped by his house for friendly ‘visits’, but he didn’t think he would be walking into their compound this early. They were a friendly bunch and they paid good money for his services, but he still feared them especially since he had first seen Caleb morph into his wolf- he was terrified

The door was cracked open, rain sheeting off the metal awning, and there he was — shirtless as always, even in the storm, lifting weights under the single hanging bulb. Caleb moved in six months ago. Single, quiet, kept to himself. Early thirties, maybe. Dark hair that fell into his eyes when he worked out, tattoos curling over one shoulder and down his ribs, body carved from years of discipline. We’d exchanged the bare minimum: a nod over the fence when I watered plants, a quick “nice weather” when we both happened to be outside at the same time. But I’d watched him. A lot. The way sweat traced the lines of his abs, how his biceps flexed when he curled, the low grunt he let out on the last

Tonight, the hatred was a living thing, breathing between them in the cramped laundry room of their shared house. "Hey princess," Caleb growled, his tall frame blocking the doorway. He was shirtless, just a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips and a towel slung over one shoulder. His chest was all lean muscle and a sleeve of tattoos that swirled down his right arm. He looked exactly like the trouble he was. “Wash this,” he threw a white blanket at her and she dodged it. Maya was bent over the dryer, pulling out a basket of warm towels. She didn't turn around.

I need to find her ASAP! I spot Caleb Brown at the entrance of the mall with a few men in black suits who look like his bodyguards. They are all looking around as if searching for someone and some of his bodyguards are all talking on walkie talkies in hushed tones. What the hell is he doing? Caleb Brown is a 25-year-old famous wrestler. I don’t really know him but I have seen his 6-feet-1-inch self with curly blonde hair and blue eyes at a few charity functions.

“You’re like a blanket.” “I’ll take that,” Sebastian chuckled, brushing a kiss into Zara’s curls. Down the hall, chaos bloomed in the older twins’ room. Caleb’s half of the room looked like a military operation. His folded clothes formed symmetrical towers of denim and fleece, and his scent — crisp peppermint pulsed faintly under the cool tang of deodorant. He was checking and rechecking a checklist scribbled on a pad. “Jacket. Extra charger. Textbooks. Running shoes. Cologne —”