Novelas y relatos de Cloud Strife Eyes

His brows furrow. I freeze. The laughter dies. They’re all staring at me now. Staring and noticing the redness around my eyes. The tears I clearly missed wiping away. The lingering tremble in my hands. “Maeve?” Seyla questions. Four sets of eyes staring at me with so much concern it makes my skin physically itch. “I’m fine.” “You’re crying,” Seyla says softly. “No, I’m not.” Lyra tilts her head. “Babe, tears are literally running down your face.”

RED'S POV I dreamed I was standing on a mountain top, looking down at the cliff below. The stiff breeze coming from the sea that sprawled beyond the cliff ruffled my hair into a mess. Instead of listening to the chirping of the birds, the gushes of the wind, and the rustling of the leaves, I heard the beeping of machines.

Ines. Her robe hung crookedly, hair in disarray, eyes darting wildly. Her hands trembled as she muttered words under her breath, the cadence fractured and jagged. She spoke to someone unseen, gesturing to corners, whispering, crying, laughing, then striking the walls as if they had insulted her. The chaos of her mind was tangible, a storm in human form. Falvio watched silently, every muscle coiled. This was not the composed Ines he had once known. She was a tempest, and he was standing at the edge of the vortex.

She wasn’t holy. She was hollow. Eyes like black trenches. A body made of stolen water and ancient memory. Power without heart. “Storm,” she rasped, her voice grinding with rage, “you belong to me.” Clara stepped forward before Ares or I could stop her. “No,” she said, lightning dancing off her cheekbones, “you threw me away. I don’t belong to anyone.” The sea surged in fury. Waves exploded upward in a violent arc, slamming toward us with enough force to wipe out an entire forest. Ares roared, gold erupting outward in a half-sphere shield. I lifted both hands, moonfire shaping itself around the gold like a secondary layer.

“Look me in my eyes and tell me that it’s a mistake. Come on, do it.” Clary felt flustered and her heart was pounding in her chest. She swallowed and then bravely lifted her eyes to look into the Alpha’s eyes. When they locked eyes, she was bombarded with a very strong desire to want to be touched by him, to want to be kissed by him, to want to be claimed by him.

Typical Lucas is silent; but this Lucas in front of me was extra silent. His eyebrows furrowed before opening his mouth to speak. “It was you who is not looking like your usual self, Eli. You look glum and your eyes are looking so puffy, too. I would bet my newly bought vinyl to someone who is a self-proclaimed old soul and uses vinyl for their aesthetic; you worked yourself up until dawn, again, no?” I could hear how worried he was in his tone, even with his judging remarks to the old soul thing part.

Shooting her hand up to her chest, she fisted her right hand around her the fabric trying to breathe normally. Tears glistened on the waterline of her eyes as she looked at Andreas who was already staring at her. Her eyes widened when she noticed how his grey eyes had darkened, almost turning black. His eyes zeroed on her now swollen and red lips. She didn’t know what was going on but her hands and knees were trembling as if she was caught in a snowstorm. Her heart thudded in her ears and her nerves were all crazy. She wasn’t able to make out anything. It was all too shocking for her.

Cold. That’s what the rogue's eyes had left me feeling—cold and stripped bare. Ever since he'd opened them, I couldn’t shake the unnatural clarity in those blank, colorless irises. There was no shade, no light, only an endless gray like mist over a barren field. It was terrifying and…utterly enthralling. Each time his gaze shifted, I caught hints of some deeper struggle within him, flashes of purple that came and went, like tiny fissures on the surface of calm water. I told myself it was only his inner turmoil spilling through, but even now, his image haunted me, leaving me feeling raw and exposed.

Snow churned red at the mouth of a valley. A woman’s silhouette at the edge of a cliff, cloak snapping in the wind, hand outstretched toward a line of marching figures far below. Her hand. Or Lyra’s. Or both. Pain pricked behind her eyes. She opened them again, the war room snapping back into focus.

On the day my daughter is discharged from the hospital after recovering from the flu, I run into my ex-husband, Zachary Levine, whom I have been divorced from for seven years. He is there to pick up his wife, who has just given birth. He looks a little surprised as his gaze moves up and down to take in my clothes, which is still stained from my child's vomit. I had no time to change out of it earlier. "Long time no see. How have you been lately?" he asks. I smile and say I am doing fine. As we are about to part, he grabs my arm. "Alyssa, our son misses you a lot. If you are having any difficulties, don't push yourself. The passcode for the house in the north of the city is still your b