Doors Blood In The Streets Novels & Stories

“HE IS MY MATE. MY HUSBAND. YOU WILL LET ME IN OR I SWEAR I WILL HAVE YOU BOTH STRIPPED OF YOUR POSITIONS With that I shoved past them, my shoulder ramming into one guard's chest, my hand already reaching for the door handle. I threw the door open and as I barged in, the world tilted on its axis on the sight that lay upon me. Blood. So much blood. The metallic scent of it hit me first, thick and cloying, making my stomach lurch. It was everywhere—soaking through the white sheets of on bed, pooling on the hardwood floor, staining the hands of the pack doctor who knelt beside the bed. And in the center of it all was Darrell. Lying pale and still. And even struggling to breathe properly. His sh

When he visited me one day, I stabbed him in the leg and ran off with just a measly fifty dollars. "Money?" I played it cool. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "Are you sure? You better think twice if you want to lie to me again, Cara Mia." He frowned as if I had upset him. The door opened and Jones walked in with a bottle of whiskey. "I guess you'll all have to manage this till Mr..." He stopped in his track and looked around the room. "Kathy?" He called. "Jones," I answered. Jones dropped the bottles on the table and gave a slight bow to the mafia leader shit!

Something is wrong. She dashed towards the door and yanked it open. She stepped out and paused. Outside was a mess. Everyone were crying and running at all directions. Blood was splattering everywhere, and fresh bones scattered on the ground. The ground itself was red, full of blood like a river. Everyone were crying yet the cries were inaudible. Tears smeared on their faces but Mira can't hear any single sound. It's like the world felt silent, muting the sound of horror.

I saw the blood that trailed down my sisters chest onto the floor and made a puddle next to my dad. I looked at the front door and made a run for it. I pulled open the door and ran outside. I ran till the blood was out of my legs and the oxygen couldn't make it to my lungs. Finally, I was gone from that horrible place. Finally, I was free again. I hid in a dark alley and slept there for the night.

Saratan’s P.O.V "I own you, little vessel." His breath was icy against my neck as he leaned in, “Every drop of the blood thrumming through your veins belongs to me… and when you bore me, I’ll drain and stuff you." My pulse thudded erratically and I couldn't help the helpless tears that slid from my eyes, "P-please, don't kill me, I don’t want to be a blood vessel…" I whimpered, feeling my bladder give up on me and wetness flooded my thighs.

Like saying it out loud is its own kind of relief. "Don't talk," I say. I put my hands on him. The Moonblood knows what to do. I don't have to direct it or manage it or be afraid of it. It moves through me the way it has been waiting to move — not forced, not pushed, simply allowed. It finds the powder's trace in his blood the way light finds the edges of things in a dark room. Not by force. By nature. By the simple fact that where this kind of light goes, the things that hide in darkness cannot stay hidden.

It was blunt and miserable, no matter what you wore out here. Doyle’s looked harmless from the front—neon beer signs, a couple cars in the lot, muffled music. From the back it looked like every shady deal I’d ever covered: a door that shouldn’t be open, a camera that “mysteriously” didn’t work, and a line of sight from the street that was just bad enough to make you feel safe.

He groaned, "Let's go outside." ....The night was chill and Dolph was just realizing it now as they went outside. The blood on his face felt awkward, it had been a very long time since he had the blood of another stained on his body or smeared on his face. He liked the smell of blood, as long as it wasn't his, Dolph didn't mind taking the life of another man as long as that man had been tagged as the bad guy. He was exhausted right now, what he needed was that medicinal bath, not a chat with Brenda of all people.

In Mafia business, there isn't any kindness left to show Just fight, cruelty and blood... . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. . .. .... . .. . .. .... . .. . blood.

The cold bit harder outside, sharp enough to sting the raw edges of my anger. I shoved my gloved hand deeper into my coat pocket, the corruption beneath the fabric throbbing like a second heartbeat. The streets here weren’t streets—just alleys strung between leaning buildings, their walls pockmarked with bullet holes and graffiti that read like obituaries. Burn the Cursed. Silver Pays. I kept my head down, my boots crunching over ice and things better left identified.