Ezra Fitz Mga Nobela at Kwento

“You’re making her feel like the plague.” “Maybe she is.” Elen snorts. “That’s rich coming from the boy who fell in love with a fire-soul, kissed a moon-blessed, and still walks around like fate owes him something.” I glare at him but he’s not wrong. He never is. Later, when the sun starts going down and paints the yard in gold, I find Ezra in the courtyard training field, shirtless, sparring with two Guen warriors. He moves like thunder given flesh. His blade dances. His stance is anger wrapped in grace.

Ezra had fired the man who betrayed him and then quietly saved the person that man had been trying to protect. He didn't tell anyone. Didn't mention it to me. Didn't bring it up with Dominic except as a logistical matter. Didn't put it on any record that would connect his name to the act. He just did it, silently, the same way he'd covered my father's debts. The same way he'd sat in a chair by my bed all night without being asked. Ezra Crane, who could interrogate a man with the cold precision of a surgeon, had a blind spot the size of a continent for innocent people caught in someone else's war.

“Ezra, it’s fine. And if she has a problem with you choosing a gift like this, then maybe she’s not the right one for you.” The Beta lets out a breath. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just don’t want to creep her out or anything.” I shrug as my pencil moves across the pad. Ezra requested a simple portrait of himself flexing in a pose similar to Renaissance era artwork. He told me that he’s been dating a woman recently, and her birthday is coming up. Amongst the standard gifts, he wanted to give her a portrait of himself.

"Luca—" "Just hear me out," he said, holding up a hand. "I've been asking around. Quietly. People I trust. And there's someone I think you should know about." He paused like he was choosing his words carefully. "His name is Ezra. He runs a legitimate tech company, nothing connected to any of this. He's around your age, he's good, Myra. Really good. Stable and kind and the type of person who would actually build something real with you. I met him at a conference last year and he asked about you then, which means the interest is already there." I stared at him.

Ezra Romano Ezra Romano is the most vicious man known, every Alpha pack knows him and his crucial way of dealing with his enemies, that's why most people want to be on his good side, even with his vicious attitude, he stands on loyalty, honor, and respect, girls throw their selves on him, married women ogling their eyes on him, but he doesn't give them his time or attention.

“On your knees, love. Be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.” Ezra was a proud man, the kind who would never kneel for anyone. I knew that what I was demanding of him was tearing him apart inside. But he loved his children. He loved his pack. If dropping to his knees could save them, Ezra would do it without question.

Ezra chuckled, following me out the door. The drive to the venue was quiet, the tension between us palpable. Ezra fidgeted in his seat, clearly anxious about being late. As the Royal Beta-in-training, he was expected to be there early, greeting guests and assisting with the preparations. I, on the other hand, was lost in my thoughts, the weight of the evening pressing heavily on my shoulders.

“It doesn’t have to. We were fated to each other, nobody should question that. Just admit it. You’re looking for excuses to get closer to him.” “You’re crazy. He was my friend, and we reunited after many years. Is it wrong that I want to reconnect with him?” “He has a fiancee.” I frowned. “What?” “Ezra has a fiancee,” he repeated. “You didn’t know that, did you?” “What do you mean? He never–” “Mentioned it?” he cut in. “You think you know him, but you don’t. Let me ask you, during those years you didn’t see him, did he try to contact you?”

EZRA As Tarius and I stepped back inside, he moved with the efficiency of someone born to war. His hand clamped around Beatrice’s neck in one swift motion, and without ceremony, he yanked her to her feet like she weighed nothing. Her lips curled into that same smug smile that always made me want to rip her throat out. But she didn’t fight him. No. She let herself be dragged up, that collar still glowing faintly around her neck. “Oh, look. The lapdog’s got hands.” Her lips twisted. “Did your master teach you that trick, or did you figure it out all by yourself?”

ISLA GRACE MILLER DATE OF BIRTH: JUNE 18TH AGED: 18 HAIR: AUBURN EYES: GREEN HEIGHT: FIVE FOOT FIVE INCHES GUARDIAN - JUNE DANIELS, RELATION: MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER, DECEASED- CEDAR FALLS. SCORED HIGH MARKS: TRACKING; HAND/HAND COMBAT; TEAMWORK; FIELD FIRST AID NOTES: RUN RISK LEVEL 2; ONE ATTEMPT YEAR ONE AT TRTC. RECEIVED COUNSELING. MEDICATED WITH ANTIDEPRESSANT FOR YEARS 1-3. CLEARED FOR DISCONTINUATION OF USE AFTER REASSESSMENT.