Christopher Scarver Book Novels & Stories

He took a step closer to me, and I took a step back from fear, he tried to touch me, but I closed my eyes worried, that's when his aura disappeared, he disappeared, I opened my eyes but I was alone in my room, the thing that I felt now wasn't a normal hell creature, the story he's been telling me, I was worried I'm messing with something much stronger, but what is it! I ran to my bathroom, showering and putting some warm clothes on like I was told, also it feels good to feel warm, I went back down to the library, I got the hell book, one that includes demons. I hide the book under my clothes and ran back to my room, deciding to read it there, I need to know what Scar is, why he wants me to l

“Can you describe the book? What does it look like? Was it your design book? Oh my God, Scarlet. Don’t tell me that fuckingly handsome professor stole your designs. It’s theft. It’s a forgery. It’s blasphemy. It’s…” “Eva, Eva, Eva… calm down. It wasn’t my design book. I remember the book cover. It was way too ancient. You or anyone else wouldn’t have seen anything like that ever. I can bet it. And it was important. It is important. Jack warned me. Shit. How can I be stupid? I should have seen through him. He knew everything.” Scarlet was running her hands through her hair and occasionally rummaging her pockets to fetch her phone. Eva kept looking at her friend like she had seen a ghost. Her

“Davin, I’m sorry, but what actually is the point of this? This isn’t helping us find Scarlett. This is just academic hoo-hah that’s better suited to a college than a damn werewolf pack.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to save this for last, but… well. Just look at this one,” he said, sliding a different book into my hands and opening it to the middle page. The paper didn’t match the rest of the book, and I couldn’t see where it attached to the spine, either. It wasn’t yellowed with age or made of scratchy, pulpy parchment, but when I tugged it (gently, feeling Davin’s eyes on me all the while) it felt stuck as surely as the rest of them.

My voice sounded like damn gravel in my own ears. The rage simmered under my ribs like it was hot and poisonous. One more scream and I swear, I’m tossing the little demon out the fucking window. Vittoria Scarpa. She was a beautiful, loyal, and stupid pawn. She was raised in the same cesspool I crawled out of—our little mafia cradle. She grew up watching betrayal handed out like party favors, and learned early that trust was a goddamn lie. She was a fool though. She thought marrying me would mean something. She thought we’d have a real family. What a joke.

"If Damien is still out there... will he try to find me again?" Elena didn’t lie. "He might. But he won’t win this time. I promise you." Rose looked to Sophie, who held her hand tightly. "Then take him down. For all of us." **** That Night – Elena’s Quarters The room was dimly lit, scattered with evidence boards, encrypted tablets, and scattered documents. Grayson sat in a chair near the fireplace, shirtless, wrapping a fresh bandage around his torso. Elena entered, her eyes catching on the scar that crossed his ribs.

Two months later, his friends asked again, "Tristan, how long has it been since Esther contacted you?" Tristan froze, unable to respond. It had been a while since Esther had reached out to him. The home that had once been theirs felt empty without her. It was just cold brick walls now and could no longer be called a home. "This isn't right. Esther's always been soft and gentle, but now she's acting so decisively." At that moment, Tristan's friend, Jordan Fletcher, hesitated before saying, "Tristan, I heard Esther's with the heir of the Russell family in Straburgh."

I barely recognized the girl staring back at me in the black screen. Scars ran down my face, souvenirs from the day I ran into the fire to save the photo Axel and Gloria left behind. None of it mattered anymore. Leaving him was the only thing that did.

Amara stared back, trying to project a semblance of stillness, refusing to betray the sheer terror gripping her. ​Emiliano stared at her for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be assessing her, her fear, her presence in his bed. He slowly walked around the bed, stopping on his side. ​He reached up, pulling his undershirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto a nearby chair. Amara couldn't breathe. Her gaze involuntarily dropped, taking in the powerful breadth of his chest, the taut lines of his abdomen, and the faint, intricate scars—silent trophies of a violent life—that crisscrossed his left shoulder.

She moved over them, fingers tracing over things, trying to discover some type of order among disorder. And she stopped her fingers. Teardrops over an old wood box was a small leather book, front inscription S.B. Samuel Blackwood. She swallowed and let it out, harsh paper scratching on top of each other. It was neat, task writing—organization, messages, account keeping. Nothing was given on the page—except the last few entries. A sentence leaped out at her, her stomach twisting. "The girl will have to be kept safe. She's worth more to them than they realize. If Harrison gets wind—"

Mariam was dressed exceptionally heavy in anticipation of her would be groom and father in law. She knew nothing about them asides from the fact that the man she was to marry was Omar bin Khalid, the only son of the Sheikh, his father Khalid bin Aaban. Omar, as she was told by Parvina who had gathered information from the rumors circulating, had lived most of his life abroad, getting his Masters degree, bachelor's degree and Ph.D, but the rumors that went round boasted more of his fine looks and physique than of his intelligence.