Damien Thorn Hellpark Novels & Stories

“Great, now you sound like our trainers.” “There’s a difference, though. We grew up with each other. The guy with the gut wound could be my brother or my cousin, my best friend. Get the idea?” “So, who are these Hell Hounds to you then? So that we know.” “Aria Redgrave. First cousin and a couple of years younger than I am. She’s the computer expert I was talking about, Hal. Please don’t get on her nasty side, or she will waste your time with so much computer nastiness your head will spin. Then we have Devine Kelos. She’s relatively new to our team, but she’s got a nose that can hunt anyone or anything down in a blink of an eye. It’s scary to watch Hilda play a game with Devine. Hunt for the

I watched Josh through half closed eyes, he was sweating profusely and looked like he was enjoying himself. It was a covenant sealed in a room that smelled of damp walls and desperation. The torn cream lace was on the floor, a heap of ruined promises. On those yellowed sheets, amidst the noise of the nighttime slum outside, we claimed the only thing the VC couldn't reach. For a few hours, the danger didn't exist. There was only the heat of our skin, the weight of his promise, my moans, his groans and the silent, terrifying knowledge that by dawn, the loom of thorns would start pulling the strings again.

In the end, Damian is his son whom he did not have, and he was a witness to all stages of his life since his birth, a witness to the injustice, tyranny, and humiliation. He was subjected to and a witness to On his rebellion and tyranny against everyone, Damien, the companion of the trail. He stood from his place, and without any comment, he pulled him into his arms, polluting him with his abundant sweat, recovering from the foregoing, and Damian narrowed him down, letting out a long sigh, enjoying the bosom of his spiritual father, friend, and companion on his path, always and forever. “You know that I hate myself and these arms that have touched you?? I would have cut it off by its roots i

Two miles away, inside the sterile, reinforced concrete core of the decommissioned Southwark annex, Elias Hawthorne sat on the edge of a bare metal crate, the dark room illuminated only by the cold, blue glare of his handheld terminal screen. His clothes were still ruined, the front of his linen shirt torn completely down the center where Damien’s large, calloused hands had violently ripped the buttons away during their chaotic, desperate collision hours before. His skin was still burning, covered in a thin layer of dried sweat and the unmistakable, heavy scent of ozone, burnt cedarwood, and Damien’s raw masculine musk. His thighs carried the deep, throbbing ache of total physical surrender,

"How disgusting. Get rid of them now." In the end, the car pulled into the most expensive neighborhood in the city. The owner of the underground fighting ring where I had spent five years licking shoes bowed in front of Rebecca, smiling. "Don't worry, Miss. Those two old husks have already been thrown into the volcano. Not even ashes are left. I guarantee nothing will be traced back to Mason." I turned and tried to run outside, but Rebecca grabbed me. "They've already been burned to ashes. What else do you want? Are you trying to disgust Mason on purpose?"

I pulled on a dark wool trench coat, the collar turned up against the chill, and slipped my phone into my pocket. I didn't use the main staircase. I padded down the service corridor, my boots making no sound on the narrow runner. But as I passed the threshold of the small sunroom leading to the east exit, a figure shifted in the shadows. Damien. He was sitting on the edge of a marble console, a hot cup of coffee dangling between his fingers. He still wore his wrinkled shirt from the night before, his hair wildly disheveled. He looked up, his grey eyes bloodshot but uncomfortably sharp.

Sitting deep within the plush leather seats, completely bathed in the soft, ambient amber light of the cabin, was Damian Thorne. He did not wear his velvet gala jacket anymore. He sat with his white dress shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, a silver glass of amber liquid resting loosely in his hand. His dark, piercing eyes looked out through the open door, scanning Viviennes soaked, shivering form, her mud drenched hospital scrubs, and the small, raw scratch on her cheekbone. There was no pity in his gaze. There was no mockery. There was only a deep, intense mixture of absolute calculation and raw, undisguised interest.

“Don’t worry, pay it in. I’m raising a daughter you know.” Damien said. “Okay, and before I forget, I need you to look for someone for me. She goes by the name Jenna Marbles. She is involved in this case.” He dropped a picture of Jenna. Diablo wrote down the name then stared at it for a while. Jenna Marbles sounded familiar to him in some way. He didn’t know if it was the Marbles or the Jenna. He raised a brow. “I feel like I already know this person. Any other information you can leave?”

"And I have a permit from the town council to operate this shop. If there are dangerous wild animals in the area, the rangers…." A ghost of a humorless smirk touched Francis's lips, gone so quickly Noah thought he might have imagined it. "Your deadbolt won't stop four hundred pounds of jaw pressure, and the rangers are currently asleep in their beds, completely oblivious to the fact that the woods are full of things that want to eat you. Grab your coat."

My name is Elora and I reside at the Blue Mountain Packhouse. I have a slim figure, long curly blonde hair which I usually wear up in a bun so it is out of my face. My eyes are a deep blue which I love. I am not a normal girl though. You see I am a shewolf, my rank at the packhouse is an omega. I don’t know my parents because they passed away when I was just a tiny baby, so I don’t have any memories of them. The only thing I have is a necklace locket from my mother. I have never taken it off because it makes me feel close to her spirit.