Framed Novels & Stories

It hurts. "It's done now. You can open your eyes, ma'am." She announced and I fluttered my eyes opened immediately. I couldn't see clearly as tears had already clouded my vision. I wiped it away with my other palm. Removing the tissue in my mouth, I sighed in relief. It doesn't hurt that bad anymore. Christabel took care of it and she plastered it.

He would really make this girl pay. Kyle gripped the railing with both of his hands in such a rage that he bent it in half, then tore it completely off the deck.

Ben explained. “You are misunderstanding me, Ben. That is not true.” Frank tried to hide the truth because he was scared of getting exposed. “I have evidence to prove all the allegations against you, Frank. I set this trap for you on purpose so that I can catch you red-handed, and I have already taken your pictures with my new model camera made of metal coating that can capture the images of the vampires very easily, even in their invisible form.” Ben showed him the images on his camera where Frank is trying to look for evidence amongst the stack of papers in the vampire king’s mansion.

But he had already agreed and had given his word to his father and Skye was now his mate. Once they were bonded, his instincts would most likely override any desire to leave him behind anyway. May as well get this done with while he still had his head. An old beta man followed behind the barmaid and it was easy to see the wound she had spoken of. No wonder no one had been able to fix it. The index finger of his left hand was bent at an odd angle and curled outward. It looked painful and Linus would be surprised if he could move it at all.

“This doesn’t seem like the most sanitary place for medical triage, Frank.” “It’ll be all right,” Frankie says, seated in a chair in his boxer briefs so that his wound is at my eye-level. A little distance away from us Christian and Nico work to secure Bonetti’s four men to chairs, handcuffing them and duct taping various body parts down so they can’t move at all.

Frederick’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands. Frederick’s voice rose in frustration. “Put the knife down!” Bellamy, unruffled, had strategically positioned four individuals around the room, each standing near one of the restrained men. They were all missing one crucial item that we had: our coat of arms tattooed on their wrists.

16 ADRIAN The crumpled note felt like a live grenade in my hand. It had arrived anonymously, tucked discreetly beneath the windshield wiper of my car. The stark message, scrawled in spidery handwriting, sent a jolt of ice through me: “The Dubois case. They framed the wrong one. Look deeper.”

With my parents' support, I filed for divorce the next morning. Mark tried to deny everything at first. He claimed the recordings were misunderstood, the photos were innocent, and Samuel was an unreliable witness. But the evidence was too complete. The dashcam audio contained his plan in his own words. Samuel's recording proved he had paid someone to frame me. The hotel photos and timestamps showed his repeated meetings with Claire. The payment records tied everything together. My lawyer used every piece carefully. Three months later, the court ruled in my favor. Mark's attempt to frame me heavily damaged his position. I kept the house and most of the marital assets. Mark left with almost no

Frank closed the door and turned back to Thomas, his expression as smooth as ever. “What was that?” Thomas demanded. “Armed? Frank, what’s happening?” “Nothing that concerns you,” Frank replied, already moving toward the narrow wardrobe in the corner. He opened it, revealing not clothes, but a small, locked case mounted on the inside wall. With a few swift movements, he keyed in a code Thomas couldn’t see and withdrew a sleek handgun, checking the magazine with efficient precision. Thomas’s throat went dry. “Jesus Christ… are you planning to use that?”

A dark approval glinted in his eyes. "Now," he announced on the fourth day of framing, "for the gilding." He produced a small, fierce-looking tool: a pneumatic staple gun. Next to it lay a coil of fine, braided wire that shone with a soft, gold-like metallic sheen. "The frame must be attached to the art," he said, loading the gun with a cold, clinical click-clack. "Permanently. Inextricably." He had her assume the crucifix pose once more, kneeling on a drop cloth. He approached from behind. She felt the cold muzzle of the staple gun press against the varnish at the top of her spine, just below her hairline.