Clint Barton Novels & Stories

The sky was darkening and the air was starting to cool off. “Luna Kristen. It’s good to see you.” One of my dad’s warriors stepped out. His daughter was in my class. His name was Clint and was still one hell of a warrior. “Hey, how are you?” I asked as I got close to him but stopped when I was within arms reach. “I am doing well, I should be asking you that question.” Clint had a sympathetic look on his face. “You know me, stubborn as hell and refuse to accept help.” I joked.

she yelled after me. I walked into the kitchen to see Blake standing in front of the sink, his hands soapy up to his forearms as he dipped them back into the sink. He had on a tight white tee that showed off his rippling back muscles as he moved around the kitchen. My tongue darted out to wet my lips and I gulped at the sight. I stalked over to him, making sure to be quiet so he wouldn't notice and grabbed his ass, making him jerk in fright.

“I lost mine before the first day of classes. I cannot justify buying another. Besides, I never attend the games anyway.” Clint turned and left. He returned with a spirit shirt. He walked over to where I was standing behind the counter and pulled the shirt over my head. “You will wear it,” he said sternly, but it wasn't his blue eyes looking back at me, it was Carter, his dragon’s, amber ones. I recoiled both in shock and fear. However, he failed to notice or care about my trepidation. Typical for him, and well, anyone. I know that I am insignificant, and I will not allow myself to think otherwise, but I do wonder what has gotten into The Trio.

said a restrained, subdued Bart sometime later. I looked to the right of me and there he was, even more dashing than yesterday when he had come to pick me up. Bart, all 6'6" of him, standing tall in his tux. His athletic build combined with his stature could not but overwhelm. Although I knew from the very few words he had spared me up until now that he was only nineteen, he hardly looked it. Hardly sounded it as he took call after call on the drive to Caines.

Dear Readers, From this point, i will continue writing the sequel of the book "The claim of his Claws.." in the same book series as "THE BETA'S CONQUEST.." In this sequel, a part of beta Lance's story will be highlighted after his abandoning of the pack. His struggles from the heartbreak and post traumatic stress disorder that he suffered after his beloved mate died. Will there be another chance for Lance or will he destroy everything coming in his ways? Will he be able to control his dark side or let it go and become a rogue Werewolf wandering in the world.

I run to the Packhouse, not knowing how late it is and if I stayed in there longer than I had thought. I make it to the front doors of the Packhouse and turn to the main house grandfather clock and to my surprise, I have just enough time to shower and get ready before I meet up with grandma and help her and my parents deliver the food to the boutique. I start undressing as I hit the bedroom door, paying no attention to my surroundings until I hear a whistle aiming directly at me. My face turns red as I look up and see Wyatt, leaning back in a chair, fixing his bulging pants.

ENZO CLINTON! ​

“Yeah, that’s Logan Carter.” There was a round of Oh's and ahs from the group at the window. I heard my phone buzz on the table with a notification. I closed my laptop down and grabbed my things. A lot of the office stayed at the window watching as I exited. I must admit they were correct; he looked exceptional. He was wearing dark jeans, a crisp white T-shirt and a black leather jacket. He was leaning against the bonnet of a car I didn’t recognise.

he drily remarks. “It is,” I admit. Claude brings me to a chair and sits me down. He walks away and returns with a wet wash cloth and a glass of water. After handing them to me he takes the other chair. A pensive look is on his face. “Now what?” I ask him. “We talk to Barto. He is a rogue. He claims to have a message for you. Maybe Maverick sent him.” “He doesn’t smell like one,” I say, thinking back to the cells. They stank. Of blood, urine, excrements and and mostly fear. But not the tell tale putrid smell of rogue.

He’d only grown silent and progressively distant as she’d guided him through the house. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he moved toward Sandra at the slow, steady pace of a graceful jungle cat. With his glossy black hair and pale blue eyes, Clint Covington was entirely too good-looking for his own good. The two days’ worth of scruff on his well-defined, square jaw gave him a dangerous edge. Jennifer had no problem imagining him in the Army Ranger uniform he’d once worn. She shook away the thought, and lifted up a silent prayer that Clint proved to be the capable doctor everyone in their small town of Village Green, Colorado, claimed he was.