Greystone Ridge Novels & Stories

The famous fountain was everything the travel websites had promised - An elaborate timeless confection of carved stone and cascading water, where every droplet caught the light like a jewel. “It’s beautiful,” Camilia said, settling onto a bench nearby. “I can see why people make special trips to see it.” “My mother would love this,” Rohan said, joining her on the bench. “She collects postcards of fountains from around the world.” It was the first personal thing he had shared about his family, and Camilia found herself curious for more details. But before she could ask, he was standing again, ready to move on to their next destination. The haunted house had taken root in Greystone Manor, an a

Rayne Arriving at the address—1472 Hollowcrest Drive, Blackwood Ridge—felt like stepping into a cruel joke the world was playing on me. The mansion looked exactly the same as it had the last time we’d searched it: dilapidated, hollowed out by time, its once-grand stone façade now cracked and overgrown with ivy. The sprawling balcony sagged like a broken jaw, railings warped and eaten away by rot. Shattered windows stared back at me like blind eyes. There was nothing here. Nothing obvious. Nothing that screamed my mate and daughter are being held hostage here.

"I told her yes. That I had believed there were others since I was sixteen and had been waiting for someone to come who would make finding out feel possible." Zara looked at him. "She asked who that person was," he said. She waited. "I told her a Voss," he said. "I didn't specify further." She held his gaze for the second he glanced across at her, and the car moved through the city and the morning's weight was present between them in the specific way that weight is present between people who have been carrying it together long enough that carrying it alone has become unimaginable. The Greystone Foundation appeared ahead of a large, well-maintained building with the warm, deliberate presentat

"I’m hunting. Is the safe house ready?" "Not a safe house, sir," Miller said, opening the car door. "The North Ridge Estate. It was never under the King Corp umbrella; it was in your mother’s maiden name. The Vances don't even know it exists." We drove in silence through the canyons. L.A. looked different from the shadows—a city of lights built on a foundation of lies. As we pulled into the long, winding driveway of the North Ridge mansion, a mid-century masterpiece hidden by ancient oaks, I felt a strange sense of closure.

She wasn’t, exactly, but— She was running into the one place every Crescent Ridge wolf knew better than to stray into alone. Kellen and I burst out the back door that led to the estate’s sprawling grounds: a green lawn that rolled for a full acre before the tree line went on for fifty more. Before that were the outbuildings—gardening barn, my grandmother’s old greenhouse, housekeeping shed, and lounge cottage—all dwarfed by the trees behind them. My ancestors hadn’t chosen this area just to boast wealth. It was also a buffer. The woods were a warning line. Beyond those trees was the Crescent Ridge’s border.

My heels clicked sharply against the stone floor, the sound echoing like a ticking clock in the suddenly quiet corridor. "Zara, stop! Please, just talk to me," Lisa panted, her hand catching the sleeve of my jacket. I didn't stop. If I paused for even a second, Adrian's warning would catch up to me. The look of genuine, unadulterated fear in his blue eyes was burned into my mind, and it terrified me—but it also proved I was right. There was a secret buried at Black Ridge, and Emily was the key to it.

"And, I mean, you did take the risk of coming here." "I wonder why no one comes to this staircase." I said, looking around. "There are some residents living in this apartment." "Maybe because there's the lift?" He shrugged. "And this building is kind of old, anyway." "Hmm." "You know, if you need any help with anything, I'm here." He assured. "You can ask me anything." "I have this English homework and..." Brayden looked at me. "Yeah?" "Er..." I need to write all of my happiest moments down.

The key sat in the lock. I had just been about to turn it. Laughter drifted from inside the house, bright and sharp. Each word they uttered stabbed straight into my ears. "Keith, you're so good to me! This is limited edition. I've been looking everywhere, but I couldn't find it." Caroline Jenkins' voice was syrupy sweet, the exact tone my husband, Keith Collins, loved most. My voice had always been cool and quiet. I could never fake such soft, clingy sweetness.

“Susan says you need to keep your energy up. Sitting here worrying about a ghost is only going to drain you further. I want to show you something.” They drove away from the main estate, heading toward the small, charming village of Norwood Green that sat nestled in the valley. The town felt like a page from a storybook, cobblestone streets, flower boxes in the windows, and a sense of community that was entirely absent from the city mansion and estate of the Silver Crescent Pack. Oscar pulled the jeep over in front of an old, two-story building on the corner of the main square. It was beautiful but weathered, with large bay windows that looked out over a small park.

The silence here wasn't the peaceful quiet of the sanctuary; it was the airless, metallic weight of an industrial grave. Below us, Iron Ridge sat nestled in the throat of a collapsed silver mine like a crown of rusted iron and shattered glass. Toxic neon indigo flickered through the haze—advertisements for bootleg silver-salt and black-market adrenaline that had no business being so bright in a world that had forgotten the sun.