Dark Novels & Stories

Her eyes wandered to Sandro's, and she realized his once beautiful sea-green orbs were starting to turn into a darker colour. It was different from the colour of the berserker wolf which was red with golden rings around it and the normal wolf which was black and flecked with gold. This was the blackest of black. A freaking vantablack and the more she stared at it, the more she felt it drawing her in. Thalia shook her head and bit her lower lips. “Sandro!” She shouted as he began to shift. “Get the fúck out of here!” He growled, straining against the chain restricting him.

Dragon stood before the large window of his spacious office, where the shimmering city lights reflected off the clear glass. The room was dimly lit by a side lamp with a creamy silk shade. The heavy classical furniture dominated the space, with dark shades of brown and black, while a faint scent of expensive cigars still lingered in the air.

She matched towards his office. Nick looked up when the door opened. "You're back. How's your dear Mother?" "She sends her greeting." He watched as she placed the tray on the table and picked up a glass for herself. "What does it take for me to get in your good graces?" she began, "I'm begging you, Nick. Please." "So the drink was some sort of peace offering." He took the other glass and downed it in one gulp. Skylar looked around the office. It was lovely, tastefully done in black tones that weren't too heavy or dark. It screamed money, class, and more money in a way that wasn't vulgar.

He grunted, his hand grabbing my neck the next instance. "I have no idea… He just crawled out of a book." I said as his grip on my neck tightened. His dreadlocks began to rise; the couple of rings attached to each hair began to glow. The chirping of birds ceased at once; they had all fled after feeling the intense, sinister aura erupting from him. "Damian?" "Don't call me that…" He suddenly withdraws; he walks towards the sea once more, holding out his left hand, which keeps burning.

Slowly—too slowly, with a reluctant dread—I looked up. Damian Blackwood stood before my desk, a towering, imposing figure silhouetted against the waning light from the windows. He was silent, utterly unreadable, a statue carved from granite and ice. His suit was black, tailored to perfection, the fabric a rich, almost inky void against the pale office walls. His tie was loosened just enough at the collar to hint at something dangerous, untamed, beneath the impeccably controlled surface. But it was his eyes that made my stomach clench, tightening into a knot of apprehension—cold, sharp, glinting like storm-polished obsidian, reflecting the last of the office lights with an almost predatory in

“Why is it so dark in here, is something wrong with the lights?” he muttered, his hand brushing along the wall as if searching for the switch. Boris’ voice echoed down the hallway. “Hey! Who’s there? Bernard? Rufus?” A flicker of light flashed faintly from the distance. “Yes, sir! Boss, you’re here—it’s Rufus! Let me turn the lights on, it's too dark.” the voice replied, growing closer. “Stop. Don’t,” Boris said sharply. “I turned them off for a reason.”

I stayed like that and breathed through my nose until my heart stopped trying to leave through my throat. Then I waited for my eyes to adjust. They didn’t. I waited longer. Still nothing. There are different kinds of dark. My bedroom with the curtains shut. Outside with no moon. Under a blanket when Maddox has decided that eight in the morning is a reasonable hour to bang on my door. All of those have shape. Eventually there’s a line of furniture, or a paler patch where a window is, or the stupid glowing light on my charger. This has none. This is just black, all the way to my own face.

We spent the day upgrading. First, the cards. Mom had a design program on her laptop. We created elegant but filthy business cards—matte black with gold lettering. On the front: Ebony Elite Pleasures – Discreet & Unforgettable. A simple silhouette of two curvaceous women. On the back, our anonymous contact info, rates (high), and a tagline: Let us worship your success… and drain every drop. We printed a thick stack on premium cardstock at a local shop, giggling like schoolgirls in the car on the way home.

The hidden perfume house sat behind an unassuming black door in the old quarter of the city. At exactly 11 PM, I stepped inside, my portfolio clutched tightly in my hands. The air hit me first — a complex symphony of rare woods, blooming night flowers, and something darker, almost animalistic. Damien Blackthorn waited for me in the central blending room, surrounded by hundreds of crystal vials and antique brass scales. At thirty-six, he was tall and commanding, with sharp features, midnight hair, and eyes the color of aged bourbon.

I pause, heat flushing all of my body. Uncle Jax nods, urging me to go on. “Umm right above my pussy,” I mumble, but the words are loud enough for him to hear. “I want it to say ‘Daddy’s Pussy’ in delicate script.”