Novel & Cerita Grayson Hawthorne Fanart

I was the one detaching from the good, forcing myself into the shadows. Grayson’s arms tightened around me slightly, his voice gentle but resolute. “Pain, hurt, hardship... that’s what often drives an artist’s most incredible work. You get lost in those feelings, and they spill out onto the canvas. That’s why it’s not disgusting, Angel.” A small smile tugged at my lips, despite myself. “You’d probably say that even if I painted a black hole,” I whispered, the hint of a tease in my voice. He chuckled, his chest vibrating softly against my back. “Maybe I’m biased,” he admitted, his lips brushing against my ear. “But this piece... keep it.”

While my other hand continued to scroll through the news. But no matter how many times I scrolled through the screen, Grayson's name kept appearing. Various articles ranged from those discussing his game, the injury he had just suffered, to articles about... a woman who was suspected of being his fated mate. I was too curious, so I clicked on one of the articles that contained a video. In the video, Grayson was seen holding the hand of a woman who looked as beautiful and sexy as a model. The article stated that Grayson had finally reunited with his childhood friend, an Alpha werewolf and former social media intern at Frost Maple named Kelly Harper Swan. At the end of the article, there was a

Menace radiating off him like bad Wi-Fi. “Goddammit,” I muttered, staring at the sketch. “That’s just Pittman again.” I erased the lines with unnecessary violence. This was getting pathetic. My readers wanted angst and passion, not an unauthorized fancomic of my homicidal landlord. And yet, every time I sat down to work, Grayson’s face crawled into my imagination like an unpaid intern refusing to leave. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. What’s wrong with me? Why am I mentally undressing a man who probably keeps body bags in the pantry?

His fingers still wore the shades of red and black colours, while tiny drops of white and gold, glinted off the backpack he had scrapped off the floor, just a few minutes after Yvette's text. He tilted his head to the brick wall he stood before, and stared a few seconds at the half finished painting. He had managed the upper half of the skull with tiny rose petals floating over it, but the lower jaw was missing. The top had its complete set of gold lined smirking teeth, which among those was a fang soiled in mostly red and part gold. A second of satisfactory smile smeared on his face and disappeared, as he grabbed tighter the straps of his backpack, and picked his way to the location Yve had

“For the past month. Is she the one who entered your heart without permission?” I said nothing. “The one you brought food to at her atelier.” “That was a professional visit.” “With a croque monsieur.” “She forgets to eat.” “And you know this because?” I looked at him steadily. He grinned. “Grayson Hawthorne,” he said, leaning forward. “Who has never in the years I have known him professionally brought anyone food anywhere… drove to a café, ordered specifically, timed the arrival so the latte would still be warm…”

Then his voice, low and rough; "Can’t sleep again?" I turned my head slowly. Grayson stood in the archway, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded navy T-shirt. Hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble, barefoot. Not as shirtless as last time but somehow more dangerous like this. More real. "Something like that," I murmured. His eyes fell to my sketchbook. "You are still drawing." "Helps clear my head." He walked farther in and stood a few feet away, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or leave. I could see the debate play out on his shoulders. I didn’t say anything.

I wondered if this was all a test from Hawthorne and if I had somehow already passed, ready to become his Luna. The maids led the way, and I followed closely behind them. Outside, I saw Hawthorne standing with three people, while four cars were parked neatly. When he saw me, he signaled me to come closer. As I stood before him, I felt the piercing gazes of his guests on my exposed skin. “My lady,” a deep masculine voice spoke behind me. I turned to see Ryan, Hawthorne's beta, with a smile on his face. He took my hand and kissed it, looking pleased. I glanced at Hawthorne, surprised to find him indifferent to his beta’s gesture.

After a day of dodging random touches, fighting her way through classes when her concentration broke and she could not hear the teacher for the thoughts of the thirty students sharing the room with her, and feeling the whiplash of disdain from the werewolf students whenever Heath or Cameron shared her class as they seemed to live for no other purpose than to make her miserable with humiliation, she leaned back against the wall to the side of the art class entrance. The art teacher, Mr Graynor, liked to sneak down the little creek that ran through the back of the oval and have a joint before his afternoon classes, so he was always red eyed and mellow, with no interest in giving his students a

Grayson knew his Halloween party would certainly be the talk of the fucking town this year. He didn’t know what the fuck he’d been thinking by allowing his hired surrogate to attend. He knew she was a liability with her history in the sex industry, but hadn’t realized the scope of the problem until she was recognized at his party by Ethan and Lawrence. Just how many of his family acquaintances had she fucked?

I moved a bit from the tree and rolled my eyes all over the beach until I finally saw him. Grayham was seated on the other side of the beach, away from the bonfire. Cain and a group of kids holding watercolors were painting his face. He looked like he was in distress. I couldn’t hold back my laughter.