Derek Cromwell Novels & Stories

Chantelle gritted her teeth and followed behind him with a scowl. Derek's office, just like his reputation, was simple and understated. Aside from two traditional landscape paintings and a few framed family photos, Andrew did not see a single decorative item inside. "Mr. Lloyd, you're here—please, have a seat!" Derek stood up with a warm smile the moment Andrew walked in. Andrew chuckled. "Mr. McCormick, you're the top official in Gabo Creek Province. If you're personally welcoming me, I might start getting a big head. You go ahead and sit—I'll manage just fine."

Still smiling, he delivered the final blow: “Shall we proceed, then? The Chamber of Justice awaits your testimony.” “You—you—!” Derek stammered. Whether or not the Earl of Croyso knew the full extent of the truth, the mere mention of Geoffrey Markham had been enough to draw blood. Flushed and trembling, Derek barked, “This is absurd! A web of lies and twisted logic!” But Croyso’s expression remained calm—unshaken, like a man simply laying out facts. Seizing the moment, Charles sneered and turned on Derek. “Surely not! Lord Croyso’s words merely followed the very reasoning you laid out moments ago. If that’s twisted logic, then I suppose your own argument was too, wasn’t it?”

“Derek? My voice came out loud, shrill. - Yes? he called over the sizzle of bubbling cheese. “This chart indicates that you are related to the Peyton family. - Yes. Is not cool? Derek returned to the table with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of cheese. He pushed a thin book across the table towards me. 'They're quite an old family from Crookshollow. Apparently, they used to have a reputation as righteous witch hunters. My great-grandfather Robert was Bishop of Loamshire. “I've heard some stories about them. Someone in the village was saying it had something to do with the caves... My phone vibrated, startling us both. I picked it up and held it to my ear.

As I observed things still in my disguise, my hate for this village grew by the second but I was not here to fight now. Just then I sensed Derrick was close by, I walked fast to hide by the stall of jewelry seller who sits by the market place. I was not fast enough because as I passed, we kind of locked gaze but I wasn’t sure he could recognize me under my disguise. DERRICK’S POV As I made my way through the market place that evening, I had Max who is my very good friend with me. He has been assisting me with preparations for my wedding with Becky who is the daughter of a Beta. I just happen to like her but not as much as getting married to her, but Max convinced me to get married to her, he

I sat in the great hall, watching wolves rush back and forth, feeling useless. Then a guard entered, flanking a familiar figure. Derek. He looked different. Thinner, tanned, with a wildness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He wore simple clothes—no suit, no jewelry. Just a man, returned from the wilderness. "Derek," I breathed. "Clara." He smiled—tentative, hopeful. "I heard you got married." "You missed it." "I know. I'm sorry." He glanced around the hall. "I also heard about the Order. I came to help."

But here he was, about to hear everything he hated to hear. “You know Alonso… the same Alonso,” the commissioner continued. “He’s been busy.” Derek said nothing. “He’s buying people,” the man continued. “Officials. Officers. Anyone who can make things easier for him… and harder for you.” Slowly, Derek’s fingers tapped lightly against the table. “And you?” he asked. The commissioner smiled again. “I’m not for sale.” Derek didn't believe him but he held his gaze. “That makes you rare,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

My wolf whines, low and broken. Derek summons me to his office just after dusk. The room smells like leather and smoke, maps spread across the desk, borders marked in red. His posture is rigid, expression carved from stone. “We need assistance,” he says without preamble. The words feel foreign coming from him. “From who?” I ask, though I already know. He meets my gaze. “Eric Williams.” The name punches the air from my lungs. “You want his help,” I say incredulously. “After everything?”

Aldric, dressed in a sharp white suit, his limited-edition Koenigsegg covered in fresh flowers, stood at the foot of his company's headquarters, the very place where I once professed to him in a wedding dress, 143 times. He looked every bit the groom awaiting his bride, a soft intensity in his gaze as he waited in silence. Truthfully, it was the very scene I used to dream of day and night. My throat tightened, and my nose stung. Beneath the photo sat a brief news caption that cut a little deeper. "This morning, Aldric Cromwell, founder and CEO of Cromwell LLP, appeared outside the firm's global headquarters in full groom's attire alongside a flower-covered luxury vehicle, seemingly prepared