Confessions Book Review Novels & Stories

Every character in this book is a product of the author’s imagination. If it creates any form of offense in order of faith, I sincerely apologize This work is a property of the author, Chime Chinonso and can not be replicated or acted upon without the author’s consent. Plagiarism is forbidden! I hope you give me your endless love and support. Chime Chinonso Copyright ©2020 All right reserved™ Confessions Of An Exorcist has matured contents and sex scenes. Parental guidance is advised *wink* Italic Font is used for Flash backs because there will be a lot of it in this story but I promise not to leave anyone behind 😁

Silence settled—not awkward, not tense. Honest. “I wasn’t sure if I should say this,” he continued. “I’ve practiced it a dozen times. Every version sounded wrong.” I felt my pulse quicken. “You don’t have to—” “I do,” he interrupted gently. “I’ve waited long enough.” My fingers curled around the edge of the table. This was it. Not the beginning. The reckoning. “I used to think confessions were selfish,” Darius said. “That telling someone how you feel only shifts the burden onto them.”

"So when Harper's poison insinuated itself… when the papers came out… it wasn't you I didn't trust, Jonah. It was me. It was my own discretion. It was the specter of a twenty-four-year-old who'd once thought he'd believed in love and had his future and his heart stomped into the ground for it." He had spoken in a fractured voice. "The doubt you saw in my eyes… it was the fear that I was that dumb, ignorant boy again. That I'd let myself be manipulated. That the replay was happening. That it never had to do with you. It had to do with the darkest recess of my own history, one which I've tried every day since to outrun.". The confession was completed. The room felt charged, cleansed by the ter

“Let me guess. You got too comfortable sharing a bed with someone who didn’t keep your secrets. They found out about the book, burned it, and now you’re on the brink of impeachment. Did I cover everything?” “I’ll never get used to that freaky thing you do,” she murmured, moving toward a nearby table. There, a bottle of red wine and a single glass waited—remarkably pristine in this bleak environment. She poured the glass to the brim, then met his gaze. “So, now what?” “Everything leading up to them seizing the book is correct. But the part after that? A blatant lie. I anticipated this. The real continuation is on the counter,” he said, voice distant, as though he were bored with the confessio

My notebook lies open on the bed, pages scattered with scrawls that don’t look like journalism anymore. I stare at them, ink smudged by my own fingertips, and realize with a slow rush of shame—and something darker—that I’ve stopped writing articles. I’ve started writing confessions. Entry 1 “Pain is not pain when it’s chosen. It becomes something else. A doorway. A release.” That was Jennifer’s voice echoing in my head tonight. I had scribbled it down after watching her work with Leo, but the words feel like mine now.

“I believed lies because I wanted certainty more than truth. I was arrogant. Blind. Foolish.” The confession scraped raw on the way out. “I want you to see it so you understand how thoroughly I was manipulated. Not to forgive me. Not to absolve me.” I reached into my hoodie pocket and pulled out the worn leather journal. It looked harmless. Small. Ordinary. Yet it had destroyed us once. I held it toward her, my hand unsteady. “This is my confession,” I said quietly. “Everything Edmund used against you. Everything I failed to question.” My voice dropped.

Outside, everything was ice and frost Dorian’s version of safe. He had wanted her out of the city while the heat cooled. A dozen news cycles had passed since the trial, since the last arrest. But silence, she learned, was never safe; it was an echo chamber. She walked back to the desk. Highlighted the whole paragraph. Cut it. Typed again. “This book is not a confession. It is a record. Of power, of violence, of velvet and blood. And of the people who lived inside it some survived. Some did not.”

Two days later, a handwritten note was taped inside my usual reading corner: Confession received. The wrong box, perhaps, but the right impulse. Desire is nothing to be ashamed of. Even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient. If you want to confess more, there’s a loose brick in the wall by the poetry section. No judgment. No names. Just listening. — The Keeper of Secrets My hands shook reading it. Someone had responded. Not with condemnation or mockery, but with… permission to be filthy. That night, I wrote more:

Still, I love the author, Priam, but his book this time is confusing. His book was always been things about the morphers; how they live, their traditions and more. But this is the first time I came across something like this and for one thing, it is still, Priam's book. It's still early for my shift at the cafe, so I reach for my phone and type the title of the book. "The...first....born." I muttered typing every letter with my heart beating fast.

A gasp flew from my mouth as my pussy was on display for the entire people on the table to see. Shame consumed me. I looked at Fredrick, who still addressed the people as if nothing had even happened. "That is a good point, Ezekiel. What does everyone think?" he asked. I felt tense when Fredrick's finger found my clit and slowly started to caress it. Horror was written on my face when I looked at everyone. However, no one looks at me in the eye.