For The Gaze Death Becomes Her Novels & Stories

I braced myself for the malice, for the screaming, for the vengeance of a woman who had lost everything to Salvatore. Instead, there was nothing. She looked at me once, coldly, blankly, and then effortlessly looked away, turning her head toward the stage as if I were nothing but a pillar in the room. As if I were completely invisible. Like I was never even there, completely dismissing my existence as she prepared to drop her real bomb. The bizarre, chilling rejection of her gaze, combined with the sheer shock of seeing a dead woman walking, was so physical, so brutal, that I stumbled backward, my knees buckling beneath me.

She reached up to touch her face and realized it was wet with tears. Looking at the driver who had rushed over to support her, she murmured, "If I hadn't dragged him back to help me pursue Elliot, would he still be alive? "If I hadn't forced him to give Eddie his kidney, would he still be alive? If I hadn't sent people to chase his boat, he wouldn't have died!" She looked as if she were about to shatter into a million pieces. … Meanwhile, right beside me, an incredibly loud burst of laughter rang out, completely ruining the solemn mood.

After catching my supposedly frigid wife, Emmy Winslow, aroused by our household robot butler, I swallowed my disgust and sent the machine to a destruction facility. I never expected that decision to cost her life. On the way to chase after the robot, Emmy was involved in a horrific car accident and died at the scene. From that day on, I became notorious in our social circle as the jealous husband who drove his wife to her death. Five years passed. Night after night, I tortured myself by wondering if she would still be alive had I not been so petty over a machine. Until today, while discussing business at a private club, I passed a half-open VIP suite and heard one of Emmy's closest frie

She was afraid that he might slap her or kill her to death at this moment because his gaze only described death and life. All those while he wasn't smiling at her but giving her this deadly gaze which says..."don't tempt me" she knew at this moment her plans wouldn't work and if she were to have sex with him right now, she knew she was going to get pregnant immediately. So she just can't imagine it!

~death~ "Fuck me, I knew this was going to be a bad idea. When the Prez finds out, I'm dead. But at this moment, seeing her flawless pale skin and realizing she wasn't wearing a bra... When I noticed she was missing during the chaos of our return, I didn't think much of it. But when I looked around for her and saw she wasn't in her room, I cursed and quickly went out looking for her. Thank fuck I did. I found her a good ways from the clubhouse, walking. I could tell something was wrong the moment I looked into her eyes, so I decided to take a different route and head to a nearby motel. Here I am now, with her splayed out on top of me, asking her if she's sure about this. Her eyes bore into m

Not like absence—but like understanding. She doesn’t flinch at my nearness. She doesn’t recoil when her fingers brush the edge of my coat. She doesn't know what I am. Not truly. But she senses it. She must. No one who’s seen death up close walks as she does. No one who hasn't kissed grief full on the mouth can look me in the eyes without blinking. But she does. And I don’t know what that makes her. A girl carved from shadow? A witch? A warning?

It smells like water and fresh air . The view is visible again . I feel like I'm watching from afar this time , as if I'm detached from whatever is going on and I instantly know .. She's suffocated to death from lack of oxygen . I look to the right and see , she's watching too with a blank look on her face . She doesn't seem sad or scared . She seems completely blank as if she can't quite comprehend what's happening to her .

And for a second— Just a second— There was something in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Not anger. Not control. Something deeper. Something dangerous. “The place I died.” My chest tightened. “That was here?” She nodded once. “Yes.” Silence. Then I exhaled slowly. “Alright,” I muttered. “Then let’s go see a ghost.” The First Move The car ride was quiet. The city moved around us—busy, alive, indifferent. But the closer we got— The heavier it felt.

He gritted his teeth against it, but his traitorous gaze still lifted, still searched for her through the haze of grief and rage clouding his mind. She stood apart from the others, her body still and composed in that quiet way of hers, hands clasped in front of her, her face pale beneath the gray light of the sky. Her eyes were wide, solemn, locked on the grave with a steady, unwavering gaze that unsettled him more than it should have. She didn’t look at him. She probably couldn’t see him, but he saw her. And every part of him recoiled at the sight. She shouldn’t have been here.

She hadn't had sex for years after her husband's death and she knew she had to make a move that night. She went into his room silently like a thief in her nighty to watch him sleeping. She was braless and pantless and wanted to try something dirty that night. She met him sleeping like a dead man in his corpse facing the ceiling. She was scared and tried to not get caught. Her eyes explored his bulge and her nipples hardened instantly. His dick was long and big and her mouth and pussy watered. After a few seconds of doubt, she carefully removed his trousers and brought out his dick. She wrapped her hand around it and rejoiced in her heart for the little success.