Duke Bookstore Apparel Novels & Stories

“These’ll work.” “Super. You go change and I’ll pack everything else up, and then we can get started. We’ve got a lot of shopping ahead of us.” She gave Bernice a dismayed look. “We do?” “Drake ’s instructions are, and I quote,” she said, pulling out her phone and reading from the screen, “‘Make sure that she gets a few weeks’ worth of clothing, along with some evening wear. You know my events calendar.’” She looked up from the screen. “I do, and it’s a doozy.” She looked back down again and continued to read. “‘Also, take her to the best bookstore in Manhattan. My library needs restocking.’” She looked up at Bernice in surprise. “He has a library?”

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“Why are you here, Duke?” “I came to talk business,”he answered.He reached into his coat and placed a slim folder on the worktable.“Only business," he said, hoping that it could work to be close with ber again. Ashley’s pen paused.She stared at the folder, then at him.“That’s new,”she said.“You usually come with apologies you already said too loudly.” “I won’t do that today,”Duke said calmly.“I promised myself I wouldn’t.” She set her pen down slowly.“Then talk,”she said.“Because I have a fitting in twenty minutes.”

While they had tea and cookies, I got to admire how good looking Ace was. The gray cable knit crew neck, black jeans and boots he was wearing were fairly simple, but he looks like he just came out of GQ magazine. How can he manage to look so gorgeous in such simple clothes is still a wonder to me... He’s such a fine sight, to all the girls that walked into the shop as well. Before I came here, the bookstore was just filled with endless shelves and books. I suggested to Nana Clara that a lounge area where people can relax and read will also be nice and people enjoyed the new part of the shop.

His fingers brush my jaw, hesitant, like I might disappear if he touches too hard. Then the storm shifts. Low footfalls. Mud squelching. A slow clap. Jake’s eyes snap open. He turns. And Duke steps from the shadows of a half-collapsed neighboring tent — casual, elegant, smug, wearing the aftermath of war like a tailored suit. His long coat is drenched and torn, blood splattered across one sleeve, hair slicked back by the rain. He looks annoyingly beautiful. Deceptively calm. But his eyes— Cold. Silver.

Duke rubbed his misery in, “Don’t worry too much, and never give up. I’m sure she will give you a chance…………next year Christmas.” Blayne chose not to respond. They settled down as the door opened and Cleo’s presence called for a high level of professionalism. She was dressed in a black faux leather trim shirtdress that accentuated her curves, with a blue outline and two small slits at the sides. Blayne was visibly lost in the mate bond as he gawked at her. She took a seat in front of me. Duke moved to my right to indicate his position in any official meeting. I wasted no time getting to the meat of the matter.

He was using the leaf to find the little psycho prince from the Luriem Kingdom as he knew that the idiot man couldn't be that far, not with that pain. "Emma, just don't get hurt," he hugged her tightly as he recalled the night before, her painful eyes were a view he didn't want to see again. He won't be able to contain his fury if she were to get injured, and the world would have to suffer too. "I know," she finished dressing in her white fighting clothes when she felt his head resting on her shoulder. The Duke had arranged for her to have a uniform with the same symbol of his knights. A golden Dragon. That way, all those recruiters would have to stand back. "Sigh… I will be fine."

Instead, she grabbed the light scarf she’d brought for her shoulders just in case she got cold, and snagging her room key, darted out the door. Glancing at her watch, she kicked her pace up to a slow trot and turned the corner in the small lobby area before the elevators just as the doors were closing on one. Inside, Duke stared at his feet, his hands tucked inside the pockets of a crisp pair of slacks. He wore a simple dress button-down, without a tie, with the sleeves rolled up and the coiling tattoos along his forearms visible.

The walls seemed to lean inward, unsure what to do with his presence. Duke Noah Wingknight. Back facing me, yet the space bent around him, thinning out like cold syrup. That outfit - charcoal coat hugging wide shoulders - wasn’t quite as rigid as before, just a little softer in cut. Air felt thinner, colder, near where he stood. Pants fit close, exact, not loose an inch. Ends of his black hair held traces of water, still darkened by moisture, smelling faintly of rain or travel. Presence alone made everything smaller.

He raised a single, heavy boot and kicked the mahogany door clean off its iron hinges, sending the massive slab of wood crashing across the polished parquet floor of the solar. Inside, the air smelled of expensive, imported pipe tobacco and aged cherry wine. Duke Charles of the Southern Marches stood by the wide arched windows, his velvet robes of deep emerald green rustling as he spun around to face the intrusion. He was a man in his late fifties, his silver hair neatly coiffed and his fingers heavy with gold signet rings, but his aristocratic composure was utterly shattered. In his right hand, he held a half-burned sheet of parchment—a letter he had been frantically trying to destroy in th