Hells Kitchen Black Jacket Novels & Stories

Because I was not going to give that man the satisfaction of seeing my neck react faster than my brain. But then I turned around one second later. Damn it. Zach stood in the kitchen doorway, and the shirt from earlier was gone. In its place, he wore a plain black T-shirt that had no right being called plain when the way the fabric clung to his chest and shoulders was an act of public provocation. The material mapped the lines of his body far too honestly, across his athletic chest, down to a stomach that was not fully visible but visible enough to make any reasonable human imagination leave the room for its own safety. The short sleeves stopped at the tops of his biceps, and from beneath the

Over it, I wore a denim blue ripped hoodie with some black boots complimenting the whole look. Let the hell fire unleash as I have breakfast with the devil's spawn

He shakes his head and waved me some clothing, setting them on the counter. "There are towels in the cupboard, I'll be in the kitchen," he states and leaves. I hurry and finish. I dressed in the clothes Nyx left. White leather pants with golden thread, an embroidered floral pattern down the sides, and a white flimsy shirt, the golden embroidery design covering where my breasts would show through. A pair of knee-high white boots completed the outfit. It was pretty but white, I shook my head knowing I'd get it dirty. I raced down to the kitchen and stopped abruptly seeing Nyx. My eyes scanned him entirely in appreciation. He was wearing all black with the same golden embroidery designs as what

Kaelen Blackrock. He wore a sharply tailored, minimalist black leather trench coat, the Soulfire Dagger—symbol of the Black Rock Clan’s supreme authority—hanging at his waist. Standing nearly two meters tall, his mere presence exuded a terrifying oppressive aura, thinning the air for a dozen meters around him. The low-ridden mounts at the edge of the square whimpered and dropped to the ground, not daring to lift their heads. His cold, golden eyes swept over the crowd, devoid of any emotion, as if he were staring at a pile of inanimate stones.

"The northern patrols are coming off shift in ten minutes! I need fifty steaks plated right now!" Maids and junior cooks scrambled frantically over the slippery tile floor, carrying heavy metal pots and stacks of white ceramic plates. Walking along the far wall, Jensen kept his posture relaxed. He wore the standard black tactical uniform of the pack guard, his heavy boots thudding softly over the noise of the busy kitchen. He patted his front chest pocket, feeling the small, cold outline of the glass vial Valerie had given him. Spotting a solitary tray resting on a stainless steel prep station near the back ovens, Jensen slowed his pace.

“Great, now you sound like our trainers.” “There’s a difference, though. We grew up with each other. The guy with the gut wound could be my brother or my cousin, my best friend. Get the idea?” “So, who are these Hell Hounds to you then? So that we know.” “Aria Redgrave. First cousin and a couple of years younger than I am. She’s the computer expert I was talking about, Hal. Please don’t get on her nasty side, or she will waste your time with so much computer nastiness your head will spin. Then we have Devine Kelos. She’s relatively new to our team, but she’s got a nose that can hunt anyone or anything down in a blink of an eye. It’s scary to watch Hilda play a game with Devine. Hunt for the

The early morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damian Blackstone’s penthouse, casting a soft glow over the sleek, modern kitchen. I roll up the sleeves of my crisp white chef’s jacket, inhaling the stillness of the morning before the inevitable chaos that will come with working for a man like him. The marble counter tops gleam, untouched, the high-end appliances silent. It’s a kitchen built for show, not for use, and it’s clear that no one has bothered to cook in here before me.

In layman’s terms: a family dinner. The safe house kitchen, usually a sterile place of stainless steel and canned beans, had been transformed. They had raided the pantry of the mercenary depot. The table was set with mismatched plates, titanium camping mugs, and a centerpiece made of duct tape and a single, frozen pine branch Catherine had found. "Sit," Jack ordered, walking into the room. He looked better. The black runes on his arm were dormant, looking like an intricate tattoo sleeve rather than a festering wound. He wore a heavy wool sweater that hid the obsidian hardness of his new skin.

Jax moves aside, continues his own search. Just when I’m about to give up and leave the damn store, Jax pipes up again. “How about this one?” I turn to see him holding up a black leather moto jacket with a silver zipper. It’s fucking perfect. My lips spread into a grin. “That’s the one.” Jax takes a closer look at the jacket inside the collar. “Medium should be good, right?” I have no fucking idea. I just stare at him blankly. He chuckles, thrusting the jacket in my direction. “Should be fine.”

Dressing in a long sleeve black shirt with a pair of ripped white skinny jeans and red and black stripped fuzzy socks; surprisingly the clothing fits perfectly. Exiting the bathroom heading toward the living room where I can hear several voices talking quietly; stopping just inside the living room silently taking everyone in; there are five men plus Black Jack with three women; everyone is wearing black leather vests with patches and a huge three colored patch on the back and everyone has t-shirts under their vests; with either black jeans or black leather pants. "Hey kid you look much better," Black Jack greets me with a comforting smile as he walks over to me; wrapping an arm around my sho