Enchanting Table Language

Gabrielle ran from her wedding to Jared… and woke up wearing Damon’s ring. He’s cold, wealthy, and dangerously irresistible — a man who swore he couldn’t feel anything. Until her. She’s the runaway bride he turned into his wife. Now she’s trapped in his penthouse wearing his shirt, his ring… and maybe, just maybe, teaching him how to feel again. ⚠️ CONTENT WARNING This story is intended strictly for adult audiences aged 18 and above. The book explores passion, desire, power, and emotional conflict, delving into the complexities of love, lust, and control. It features dark romance elements, including manipulation, obsession, dominance, moral ambiguity, toxic dynamics, and unhealthy relationships portrayed solely for plot purposes. These themes are not meant to be romanticized, endorsed, or implemented in real life. Readers should expect graphic sexual descriptions, BDSM, explicit language, and mature emotional themes, as well as elements of dark humor, identity crisis, childhood trauma, and emotional numbness. Due to the intensity of these topics, reader discretion is strongly advised. This story is written for entertainment and storytelling purposes only. The author does not endorse or glorify harmful behavior. Copyright © 2025 by Siemuri Daniella. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

18+ MATURED CONTENT!!! IF YOU FIND THIS TOO SENSITIVE, PLEASE DO NO READ. HEAVY LANGUAGE INCLUDED. –BLURB I could still feel his eyes ransacking my face and I know his eyes were more interested on my lips. His thumb brushes lightly on my lower lip that was still held captive by my teeth, releasing it. "I don't have a big mouth", I managed to say as I looked at him, regretting it. I could see his jaw tightened and his eyes grow darker. If I didn't know the type of maniac he was, I would have said he looks interested in me, but I know him. "Oh you do love... and I imagine how it would look around my hard cock, moving up and down, just like the way you saw Irina do it last time", Nikolai said. I gasped in shock at his words. Of course I remember that day! "You have no shame, do you?!", I asked in annoyance and all I could hear after that was his loud laughter. I swear this is the first time I have seen him laugh. "You're right my Kukolka, I have no shame... that's the only way to rule this world", he concluded and left me there.

This is book 2 of, A Broken Alpha, but can be read as a standalone. ️ warning, bxb, lots of detailed scenes, bad language, and abuse. Alpha Reid hates hybrids, especially werewolf- vampire hybrids. What happens when he finds out his mate is one. What happens when he finds him in the dungeon at another pack barely alive. Does he leave him there to continue to get tortured or rescue him?Reid inherited his dad Aiden's abilities plus one unique to him.Alpha Reid quickly becomes the strongest Alpha around. His abilities strengthen and grow once he becomes Alpha. Reid has one flaw, he hates hybrids with a passion. After one killed his best friend at the age of 16 it has been his mission to find this hybrid and kill him. He hates all hybrids because of this and would love to kill them all.What happens when he discovers his mate is a hybrid while visiting another Alpha to see if the hybrid he's looking for is in his dungeon. He initially went into that dungeon to find, torture and kill this hybrid and maybe more. But instead he found his mate. Does he leave him there to rot or does he save him

Richard Lorde’s childhood friend had just become a widow. On our fifth wedding anniversary, he brought his childhood friend and her daughter into a karaoke box and removed my ring right before everyone. “Lily needs a proper status right now. It’s no longer right for you to wear that ring. “Resign from your job tomorrow and take care of Lily and her daughter.” Everyone in the room fell silent as they waited for me to blow my top off. But I said nothing. I calmly brought out the divorce agreement I had already signed, put it on the table, and left. My best friend stood up to advise me against it, but Richard just swung the wine glass and snorted. “Let her. She’ll come begging for my forgiveness before tomorrow.” When I slammed the door shut, I heard laughter from the room. What they did not know was that half an hour ago, I had received a message telling me that my visa application had been approved. The person in charge of picking me up had been waiting at my house ten minutes ago. This time, I was not turning back.

At the dinner table, my mother-in-law slid a contract across to me, right in front of more than 20 relatives. "Just sign it," she said lightly. "Consider it a favor to me." I looked down. A home mortgage agreement for 150,000 dollars. Across from me, my husband's younger brother, Jim Canfield, watched with a grin. Beside him, my husband's eldest sister, Cindy Canfield, urged impatiently, saying, "Shirley, what are you waiting for? Just sign it." I said I needed to go home and talk it over with Howard Canfield first. My mother-in-law's expression darkened. "What? You can't even make this decision for your own marriage?" That night, I did not sign anything. Later, she sent a three-minute voice message in the family group chat, accusing me of being childish, ungrateful, and heartless. More than 70 replies followed—not a single one in my defense. A month later, I came home from work to find three men waiting at my door, there to seize the house. I pulled out my phone and checked the property registry. The record was clear. [Mortgaged. 150,000 dollars.]

My daughter was violated and killed, yet her death was ruled a suicide. After seven failed appeals, I kidnapped the chief prosecutor’s daughter. I tied the chief prosecutor’s daughter to an autopsy table and publicly addressed the prosecutor’s office in a live stream. “I performed the autopsy myself. My daughter didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. “I’ll give you seven chances. Release the actual evidence and name the murderer publicly. Each time a chance runs out, I’ll remove one of her body parts.” The chief prosecutor and his wife knelt on the floor. They begged me desperately to spare their daughter. “The evidence proves your daughter took her own life. Stop this madness now and let my daughter go. She’s innocent.” Viewers in the live stream called me insane. They said I had lost my mind with grief and was taking it out on an innocent person. I ignored their contempt. With a sneer, I picked up a scalpel and pressed it against the judge’s daughter’s abdomen. “The clock is ticking. Hurry up and reveal the true murderer now.” I knew perfectly well the real murderer was watching the stream at that very moment.

From a campus romance to marriage, Dominic Fleming had always believed he led a perfect life. His wife, Isabella Sinclair, was dazzlingly beautiful. Their daughter, Lilith, was sweet and obedient. Dominic sometimes told himself he must have been a saint in a past life to deserve such happiness. Everything began to change the moment Isabella's so-called "sworn brother," Alexander Grant, entered their lives. Alex's name appeared more and more often, and it crept into every corner of their marriage. For Lilith's sake, Dominic endured the strain again and again until the day of the accident. As he lay on the operating table with his life hanging by a thread, Isabella was not at his side—she was with Alexander instead. That was the moment Dominic's heart finally turned cold. So why did Isabella regret it? She knelt with Alexander, who likewise barely clung to life, and wept as she begged Dominic for forgiveness. "Dom, I know I was wrong. Let's get married again. I will make him kneel and beg you for forgiveness," Isabella said. "Scram," Dominic replied. Isabella nodded eagerly. "Fine. I will throw him out right now!" "Get the fuck out too!" Dominic barked.

A dark and gloomy villa stood in the middle of the barren landscape, hidden from sight by a perched hedge. It was phenomenal and spectacular, but it makes it appear to have succumbed to a sullen and ominous atmosphere, both inside and out. A lanky hedge and gnarled shrubs give off the impression that the house has indeed been overlooked. The rainstorm seeping from the sewer pipes made the place appear miserable and dispirited. Needless to say, the house appeared razed to the ground and devoid of life. The house was made of rune stone that had been smeared darker in spots by downpours, sending it an insidious demeanor even during the day. The window frames were all padlocked and bricked up in steel frames and woods, as if what was inside would have been too grotesque to see, trying to give the impression that someone must have attempted to prevent something horrible from escaping. People have claimed that the residence was plagued by the witch who died there, but there has been no tangible evidence to substantiate their claims. It was even widely speculated that the villa was venomous and mowed down the leaves of trees that come into direct contact with its concrete pillars. People also construed a terrifying presumption that whoever tries to enter the house will never make it out alive because there is something inside that you would never dare to see with your very own eyes. Whatever was real or not, it was unmistakably foreshadowing, exponentially cold and savage at a hundredth of a thousand glances. A breathtaking doll sat competently on a rocking chair inside the house. Waiting complacently for someone brave and heroic enough to unravel the abominable and ghoulish mystery and paradox behind her enchanting, spine-chilling smile.

I was dying of kidney failure. Henry Colombo—the ruthless Mafia heir who once swore he’d burn the world to keep me alive— found me a donor. But the price… was her. Susan Miller, the woman who’d always lingered between us, smiled as she set her terms: “Be mine for one month. Pretend you love me—and I’ll save her life.” He agreed. He said it was just to save me. But every lie, every kiss, every photo she posted online was another nail in my coffin. Each time the surgery drew near, she invented a new delay—a fever, a nightmare, a tender bruise. And Henry believed her. He always believed her. The night my heart flatlined on the operating table, he was across the city, feeding her grapes under candlelight, whispering her name—the name of the woman who had let me die. When he finally learned the truth—that every tear she shed was rehearsed, every promise she made was poison— he destroyed everything. Her lies. Her wealth. Her family name. His own empire. But none of it brought me back.

Hilda Oakley, the charity case Mom and Dad take in, steals my family right out from under me. She slips drugs into me, driving me into a bipolar disorder. She turns me into someone who snaps and screams at Mom and Dad without meaning to. She paints me as someone rotten inside, as the bully at school, and as someone who'd shove her down the stairs at home. And because of that, my whole family turns on me. Mom calls me a bad seed. Dad says I'm no daughter of his. Then, they adopt Hilda and throw me out in the dead of winter. My bipolar flares. Naked, I sprint onto the rooftop and jump to my death. When I'm reborn, I realize I can make the thoughts in other people's heads audible. So, at the dinner table, I let Hilda's thoughts spill right before Mom and Dad. 'I kept that witch Valerie drugged for three years. She finally broke! They still don't suspect that Alex isn't really her brother. He's Susan's son. Once we poison Valerie's parents, the Coopers' fortune will belong to us.'