Cold Fire Book Novels & Stories

She flipped him the finger as she continued to walk away, hips swinging, her purple nail polish glinting in the bright light. "I fucking love you, woman!" She laughed and looking back over her shoulder, blew him a kiss. "I love you too, fighter man." END OF BOOK TWO

But of course, we ran into a few hiccups while video calling at home. For example, we nearly got discovered by his mom. "Are you done with your homework, or are you reading comics again?" I looked at him in the video and saw that he was staring off into space. Upon closer inspection, there was an open comic book lying on the table next to him. However, when I yelled at him, Austin immediately whipped his head around and buried his nose into the revision books again. A short while later, he peeked at me again and gave me the saddest puppy-dog eyes.

Slowly, my hand touched my face, and I wiped the greasy liquid off. Then, with fury burning in my chest, I roared, "You know how much those pajamas mean to me! I cherished them more than anything! You know. You know damn well how much I care. And now this piece of trash is wearing them. "He burned them with his cigarette, and you're defending him? You're my wife! You splashed hot soup on me and slapped me for him. What am I to you? What is my mother's final keepsake to you? Nothing?"

Her eyes were going through the lines of the book she was reading but every now and then she has to focus on words to grasp the meaning. Continuously, her mind was being shifted to somewhere else instead of thr story which those lines entailed. The book, titled, 'Zaryaab' was about an underworld mafia guy who was not just a businessman but also a prominent politician of the country. A dark and quiet aura had succumbed him always on the streets he walk and within his heart, he carried a deep and intense fire that had been burning him for years.

The other Wednesday had become the day the book arrived. Ernest made coffee. He brought Don a cup. They sat in silence. The fire was not lit—it was morning, the fire would be lit in the evening. The kitchen was cold in the way kitchens in February were cold, the cold that came through the stone floor and the old windows and the walls that had been standing for centuries. The cold was not uncomfortable. The cold was the condition of February, and the book had arrived in February, and the book would keep. ---

Not waiting to behold the fallout, I scramble out of the dining room, fleeing back to the nursery. Once back in the room, I ignite a taper from the room's only wall sconce. I make my way to my dark cell, lighting the little oil lamp on the nightstand next to my sleeping pallet. The small oil lamp sheds enough light for me to open my newly acquired trunk and grab another woolen tunic. I change and performing a cursory exam of the fading burn marks on my thighs, relieved that the soup is not any hotter because this is a time where I could die from a splinter.

"You have nothing to hide from me and I will not allow you to take a chill. I'll wait until you beg before fucking you, but I will not be stopped from seeing your body. Close your eyes." Against her exacting nature and without argument, her eyes slam shut. I continue removing the cloth. Every inch of her is exquisite, made for me and pleasing to my every fantasy. Her breasts full, waist small, hips wide, and skin so incredibly soft I want to mark her everywhere. When I finish removing her top and lower garments, I run my hands briskly over her flesh to warm her. Her eyes remain shut tight, which scrunches her face just a bit and purses her very kissable lips. Finally, I pull her close agains

Before my eyes, my memories—moments with Lucas, our seaside home, our love—were being gathered in his palm like burning spheres of fire. As a final attempt, I detonated the “super-simulation” code within me. Flames burst through the gaps between the Original Father’s fingers. The entire lab shook violently. In that blinding white explosion, when I opened my eyes again, I was no longer in the metallic city. I stood in an endless library—filled with billions of bookshelves. Every book was titled “Sophia.” I opened one book—it was the story of my life. I opened another—it described my death.

The marsh beyond the hollow walls stirred as if holding its breath. She felt everything. Rowan’s fury. Lucien’s hunger. Her own rising storm. She lifted her hands—fire and frost blazing in perfect symmetry. The marsh answered. Roots erupted through the floor in long, twisting spears. Fire burst from her palms in a column of gold, but frost intertwined with it—blue-white veins snapping through the flames like ice lightning. Wolves howled as frost sealed their paws to the stone, while the fire seared the air around them.

Somewhere in the mess, a candle lay knocked over, wax hardened against the side. Then came the image again: Cassie and Ledger, laughing, holding hands. That stupid kiss. Her fingers flicked the lighter and a flame burst forth. Then she released her finger. She repeated the motions a few more times before leaving the flame on. Her eyes fell on the book shelf and before she knew it, she was setting the books on fire. “Let’s see how perfect she looks when everything’s gone.” The flames caught on the curtains and then began to spread. There was smoke and heat.