Courting Death Novels & Stories

I looked him in the eyes. "Have fun with that cupcake." I pushed pass him and opened the door to go in. Then it dawned on me. I turned around. Aiden was by my side holding me and Adam was following Mark as he stormed off. No. He couldn't be serious. I had to stop him. "Letty you can't stop this. It's his time. I'd rather you not see this." Aiden whispered into my ears. "Aiden please no don't do this. I don't want him to actually die." Aiden shook his head.

A stir moves through the courtroom. Not loud. But enough to feel. Enough to know this changes everything. The walk to the witness stand feels longer than I expect. Like I’m walking across ice that might crack with every step. But I sit down. I raise my hand. I take the oath. And then I face them. Twelve strangers. Dozens of spectators. The press. The judge. Isadora. And the ghost of the man I killed. Carrington starts simple. He walks me through the night of the second gala.

“Who fucking brought you here? I told them no lawyer. I don’t need you.” Weiss’s mouth opened, his shock clear, his voice urgent. “You’re facing life, maybe death,” he said, his eyes searching mine. “Pleading guilty buries you. Let me help.” I turned, my boots scuffing, my voice cold. “Bury me,” I said, my heart a void, my steps heavy toward the courtroom. “I killed him. I deserve it.” The courtroom buzzed, packed with faces—reporters, locals, my own enforcers, their eyes red, their grief raw. The air was thick with whispers, fear, awe—the Reaper, the kingpin of Miami’s underworld, now a broken man in chains.

"I thought this kind of drama only existed in novels. I didn't expect to see it in real life, and somehow, he's even more despicable than a fictional villain. Cynthia's dead. Even if you have no conscience, you shouldn't be desecrating her like this." "He's already trending on Twitter. Can this man just die already? Is there any way the law can sentence him to death?" "If the courts won't punish him, can't we make sure he doesn't walk out of here alive?" "Agreed. The public outcry won't stop until he's dead!" "Doesn't anyone else think this is weird? Everyone knows an organ isn't viable a month after death. Why is he so obsessed with digging her up?" "What's there to get? He's stupid and dis

“I have this fantasy that if per-adventure… I die, I want it to be the most perfect death. Like it happens in books. My killer is going to be a handsome man, 8 feet tall, he has a strong, chiseled jawline that looks like it’s carved from marble, but it softens the moment he smiles. His hair is thick and perpetually tousled, as if he ran his fingers through it while thinking about me. It’s a deep, rich mahogany color that catches the light and looks gold in the sun. His eyes are his most striking feature, a warm, honey-brown that feels like a physical embrace. They aren’t just beautiful, they are expensive. He’s tall, like I already stated, broad-shouldered, giving him a presence that feels p

The blood had nearly stopped flowing. The position of his right hand was strange; his fingers curled as if trying to grasp something. I crouched down. In his open left hand, written crookedly in blood, was a single word: "Run". 02:14. One minute left. 02:15 came. Nothing happened. I was still alive. "Substitute death successful. Eric Dawson was killed at 2:14 in Parking Lot C. Remaining loop time: 48 hours. "Go to Parking Lot C. There’s something for you."

"Tonight, Nate's taking me to a charity auction. He says he wants to do something good and build up some blessings for my upcoming surgery. Oh, right, both of my kidneys are getting replaced in two days." The moment the door clicked shut behind her, whatever light remained in my eyes flickered out completely. Nathan had money—more than enough to buy Trinity two new kidneys. I let my eyes drift shut, surrendering to the endless dark. … When I opened them again, I saw a body I was very familiar with. She was lying on the floor, curled up, her face pale and lifeless. I crouched down, reaching out to touch myself, but my hand passed right through. I tried to grab the phone, then the bed.

After catching my supposedly frigid wife, Emmy Winslow, aroused by our household robot butler, I swallowed my disgust and sent the machine to a destruction facility. I never expected that decision to cost her life. On the way to chase after the robot, Emmy was involved in a horrific car accident and died at the scene. From that day on, I became notorious in our social circle as the jealous husband who drove his wife to her death. Five years passed. Night after night, I tortured myself by wondering if she would still be alive had I not been so petty over a machine. Until today, while discussing business at a private club, I passed a half-open VIP suite and heard one of Emmy's closest frie

For a heartbeat, I almost let them spill out — black fire against false oaths. Not yet. The first blow had not been struck. The Priestess lowered her arms, each chain whispering softly as it fell against her robe. “The fight shall not end until one stands. The one who cannot rise is cast out. The one who bleeds beyond healing is cast out. Death… is the right of the Culling.” The crowd roared. They wanted death. They always wanted death. I stood unmoving. My chest rose and fell. Slow. Measured. But inside, every thought was a storm.

I stare at the lovely city of Manchester as I weigh my options. It’s either bankruptcy and death or marriage and coronation. I guess the latter isn’t much of a bad idea, only it is. Whatever the case, my father’s murders must pay. I have a secret after all, I can hardly die.