For What It's Worth Book Novels & Stories

"Don't get anyone. Just stay with me for a while. I've been waiting a long time for this." I sat on the edge of his bed. Seeing how worn he looked, how hollow his face had become, I could not hold myself together. The tears kept coming. A warm hand rose and brushed them away. "Don't cry." His thumb lingered at my cheek. "You asked me earlier whether it was worth it. You asked me once before if I regretted saving you. Here is my answer. You're worth it. I've never once regretted it. Losing you would hurt a thousand times more than any bullet."

Still walked away with something real in his hands. But not untouched. “That’s the kind that stays with you,” Adam murmured. “Not because it was crazy… but because it wasn’t supposed to happen at all.” He tapped the book lightly against the counter. “In and out job… turns into something you remember for the rest of your life,” he said, half to himself. “Yeah… that’s dangerous in a different way.” Adam paused, staring at the page for a second longer. Then a faint smirk pulled at his lips.

It was about accepting her vulnerability and acknowledging her imperfections. And it was in accepting her vulnerability that she truly understood the depth of her connection with her pack. They were not just warriors, but a family, a tapestry woven from diverse threads of strength, loyalty, and unwavering support. She had always considered herself strong, independent, the stoic leader who never faltered. But the war had shown her that even the strongest among them needed support, needed to lean on one another, needed the comforting presence of those who loved and understood them.

"What is that?" "Oh, this?" He waved a book in my face. "Galen was able to keep this; he claimed it to be the most expensive possession of the past's most powerful witch. It's a book, I think. But for some reason, it seems to be useless." "Why is that?" "Go ahead," he said, handing me the book. "See for yourself." The hairs at the back of my neck stood up as I held it in my hands. My fingertips tingled as if I were in contact with electricity or something. It was unusual, but for some reason, the pain that I was feeling by the side of my waist vanished.

That familiar dominant weight grounded me instantly. “Ask yourself what you wrote the book for,” he said quietly. “Not the money. Not the fame. Why did you bleed onto those pages?” I closed my eyes. “Because I wish someone had told me it was possible. That love could start in hell and end up here—two kids, backyard rink, a husband who still makes me feel safe when everything goes dark.” “Exactly.” He tilted my chin up. “If our story can give even one person hope… one scared kid in net, one couple drowning in shame, one survivor… then it’s worth it. One last time.”

The question made me quiet for a while but my nutshelled brain couldn't form an answer to it. "You're happy with the dress you purchase with the money earned by your father's hard work but you don't value it. You'd probably wear it once or twice at the most and then you wouldn't care for it, doesn't matter the fortune amount it costed. Because you know it's price but you don't know it's value. It's worth! And that's where you decipher if you are worth it or not. I mean, don't mind, but how can you be worthy of that dress when you actually don't know it's worth?"

The one thing getting me through my restlessness this week was the thought that I'd be spending time at Henry's, along with Valentina, April and Tom, keeping me saner than I currently felt. I searched through the biology area of the library, scanning my hand over books and searching for the ones that I needed.

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"Worth it." "Yes," Alexander said. "Worth it." ---

"I thought the cost was my conscience, my freedom, and my body. What's left?" "Your worth," he countered, meeting my gaze, his eyes devoid of flirtation. "You accepted that you are not disposable. Now, you must become valuable. In the Volkov world, nothing is simply a pleasure object. Everything must justify its existence through contribution, or it is purged. Arthur’s entire philosophy is built on efficiency."