Dark Hermione Mga Nobela at Kwento

she panted, barely louder than a whisper. The darkness came closer, and the air became chilled. The woman was cloaked in dark, a distorted, monstrous version of the woman who was worshiped and feared. Morgane's flesh was as white as the moonlight that filtered through the canopy above her, and her eyes gleamed with wickedness, their depths bottomless and black as the void. Ah, ah," Morgane spat with the hissing snake. "I was expecting you." Emereah's jaw hardened, her hand tightening on her sword. "Your terror ends here tonight, Morgane."

Slater quickly shushed her by pointing his gun in her direction. It wasn’t the recommended strategy, but it worked. “Shut up!” The girl whimpered, cowering back in the cell into the woman behind her. Matthew continued his scan. The fourth girl stood against the wall, her head back against the bricks as her lips moved quickly. He could hear her faintly, and it took a second before he made out the prayer for mercy she was chanting with her eyes closed. Mercy. “Macy Swan?” He asked, knowing from the picture he had studied that this was her, though they had done a hell of a job trying to hide her. Her black hair had been bleached blonde, and make-up was smeared across her face.

When the darkness peeled back, a woman stood where the creature had been. She was dressed entirely in black, fabric clinging to her form. Her hair spilled down her back, dark as a moonless night, framing a face too beautiful to be trusted. Her eyes glinted with wicked intelligence… old, sharp, and amused. Seryna smiled. It was slow, knowing and very dangerous. “Well, well, well,” she purred, her voice smooth as venom. “If it isn’t my long-lost nephew.”

Hunter’s right there beside her, smug as hell, and I intend to crush his throat. One good hit and I'll put this snake-ass motherfucker down and end him right fucking now. But the crowd is getting thicker around us and their cameras are flashing lights, capturing everything. I glance at Hermione. Her eyes are red, and her chest keeps jerking up and down like she just ran ten miles. She’s trying to look strong, but I know her. I know the way her chin sets when she’s lying to herself. She’s pretending she’s over me. Pretending I don’t matter.

POV: Narrator The witch's lair was hidden deep in the Shadowpeak Mountains, a place where sunlight never quite reached and the air tasted of ancient magic. Neon dragged Thelma through a stone archway covered in runes that glowed with sickly green light. Behind them, his men carried the unconscious Theo, still paralyzed from the silver dust. "Welcome," a voice purred from the darkness. "I've been waiting so very long to meet you, child." A woman emerged from the shadows. She looked perhaps forty, with long black hair streaked with silver and eyes that held centuries of knowledge and cruelty. Morgana the Dark Witch, though she looked nothing like the monster Thelma had imagined.

Stepping out from the glass itself was the Dark Queen. She was flawless in the most horrible way—this physical manifestation of necromancy. Deathly pale skin, marked with violent black veins pulsing with stolen magic. A crown of jagged black ice sat on her head, and her eyes weren’t eyes, not really, just empty voids that didn’t care. I didn't just push her off me. I channeled the golden energy of Kaelen's anchor, fusing it with my silver fire, and drove my fist directly into her chest.

I figured I would just sleep on the chair until I knew the rules of this twisted game. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, my hair pinned up in a messy bun. SLAM. The front door hit the wall with a violence that made me drop my glass. He was back. And even from the kitchen, I could feel the darkness radiating off him. Kiran walked in. He looked different—unstable. His eyes were bloodshot, glowing with a dark intensity that made my skin crawl. He walked straight toward me and, without a word, reached out and pulled the clip from my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders.

He walked off to the bedroom, leaving her standing there with his release dripping down her thigh. Sora Robbins, twenty-eight years old, stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. The woman looking back at her had beautiful dark hair, full lips, and soft, generous curves that men on the internet called “goddess-like.” But in her real life, those same curves were weapons used against her. She didn’t know how much longer she could survive this. --- The next morning at Blackwood Corporation, Sora tried to bury herself in work. As a senior assistant in the marketing department, she was good at her job — organized, quiet, and reliable. But today her mind kept drifting.

If I manage to escape, I want to be confident that'd I'd be able to have this bastard put behind bars. Again if... His eyes shift, my eyes widening as his eyes turn from a dark blue to a pool of black, red veins trailing along from his pupil to the edge of his eyes. His voice is dark as he commands, "Show me that pretty little neck of yours." My mind is muddled by his words, wanting to protest to his command, but my body betrays me as I incline my head to the side, pulling my dark hair out of the way and giving him a perfect view of my neck.

Well, it’s probably obvious to someone who’s been abandoned that a reminder about such an event was a trigger to a much painful breath than death. “Be prepared—” Dark’s voice was deep, groveling, as though it had been pulled from the depth of the ocean, and was echoed by a menacing tone that made it look as though two people were speaking. “—to die!” The mistress laughed as Dark charged blindly. The flames of his darkness lashing toward her as though some kind of lasso whipping in the air, but, as usual, she managed to annihilate it with a wave of her hand. She was the propagator of the Sylvania’s strength and has, thus, full immunity to it.