Fictional Witches

Fear crept in, I couldn't lose her, and there was no time to rush back to the hospital. But then, without thinking, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers. It was more like my wolf, Jean was in control, pulling me closer to her. She opened her lips, allowing me. Instantly, I felt her pain, the burning agony in her leg. It all flooded into me, and after a while, the whole pain was gone. My breath hitched, but I didn’t pull away. There was no pain anymore, just how soft and sweet her lips were. She extracted her hand from mine and pulled me closer by the neck. She didn't want me to stop either. I felt like going further and tearing off her clothes; I wanted her; I've always desired her. If only she wasn't wolf-less, if only she was strong, she would have been perfect for me. She rolled her tongue inside me, making me grip her tighter. I began heaving, I wanted more. ******** Louisa was a wolf-less girl rejected and killed by her fated mate, the ruthless Alpha Scott. He intended to pick a worthy mate of his choice after her demise but she was brought back to life by a coven of witches who had a vendetta against him. She returns with no memory of who she was or the betrayal that led to her demise but on realisation that Scott wants her dead, she finds a way to stall and plans her escape. Alpha Scott falls deeply for her but refuses to ever admit it. Sooner than later, she begins to remember who she was and plans her revenge with the witches. Now, with revenge in her heart and magic on her side, Louisa must choose: love him… or destroy him..

"I'm not your mate! I reject you! Evil!" He stepped closer like Aeryl was some dangerous animal. One moment, he was across the room. The next, his hand was around her neck, lightly but very threatening, resting her back into the far stone wall. Aeryl gasped, her breath scattering at the sudden, inhuman move. "Careful. You don't know what you're walking into, hybrid," Aramisius hissed, his lips grazing her ear. "You should know your enemies. I am one of them." "What... what do you want from me?" His eyes burned red-silver, unnatural light cutting into her. "All. Of. You." Warning: This book is 18+. There was no escape from him. Aeryl has always known her blood was dangerous. Born a hybrid, she was never fully human, never fully safe. When her father bargains her away to the powerful Lycan Lord, she chooses the only path left. Run and fight. But the night is not merciful. Aramisius rises at midnight: cruel, exquisite, and ancient. And now he has scented her. His mate. His curse-breaker. His obsession. Aeryl may think she can flee, but he does not chase. He hunts. Dragged into his rose-scented castle, Aeryl discovers that the greatest danger is not his cruelty but the way her body responds to him. Her wolf calms in his presence. As rival kings, witches, and shadows close in, Aeryl learns the truth too late: Every kingdom either wants her or fears her and the danger was never Aramisius. It was what would happen if she is taken from him. Can Aeryl find herself and stand against the armies and powers as the world begins to shift? This is not just another werewolf romance. It is dark erotica where bodies are claimed, love is sacrifice, and surrender is the most dangerous ecstasy of all.

I stood at the edge of Ironwood territory, boots sinking into mud as cold seeped through my coat. I hated being this close to their land. It smelled like wet dog, testosterone, and trouble. “You’re late, witch.” The voice hit low and deep, vibrating through the ground before it reached my ears. I didn’t flinch. I refused to give him that. I turned slowly, amethyst eyes narrowing as I found him at the tree line. Guilermo Santander. He stepped into the gray light, rain sliding off his broad frame. Six-foot-five of pure menace. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, silver streaks catching the gloom, and those amber eyes—burning straight through me. “I’m not late,” I said calmly, though my pulse spiked. “You wolves just don’t understand patience.” He stopped three feet away. My skin prickled as the runes along my ribs flared hot, reacting to the dense magic rolling off him. Suffocating. Intoxicating. “And you witches don’t understand territory,” Guilermo said. He didn’t sound feral. He sounded tired—like a man carrying a century of weight on deceptively young shoulders. He leaned in and sniffed near my neck. I stiffened. “You smell like sage and burnt sugar,” he murmured, voice dropping, darker now. “It’s giving me a headache.” “Then stop breathing,” I snapped. One corner of his mouth lifted, a flash of sharp canine. “Make me.” The air between us snapped tight. My magic stirred, violet haze curling from my fingertips without permission, brushing the leather of his jacket. He didn’t pull away. He leaned closer. And standing there in the freezing rain with a man who could tear my throat out, I realized two things: Elder Sibal was wrong—Guilermo wasn’t a monster to be chained. And I was in serious trouble.