Impregnating Her Novels & Stories

“I understand your pain. Getting a chance to love again only to realize your connection with her is divided. I have been through that as well. I know the pain.” … “Don’t you dare harm even a single hair on her head, or else…” She clicks her tongue multiple times imperturbably… “ Don’t worry, I won’t. Not when she is my trophy…” her face blank and unreadable. “What do you mean?”… Choosing to Ignore my question, she pushes her red hair behind her shoulders. Her eyes glows golden as she mumbles out some incantations and the fire dies out. “So, what brings you, really?” she walks across the room and relaxes on a sofa, crossing her legs.

Not when it felt so profoundly right. She stood before the mirror, carefully concealing the evidence of his passion. Reddish bites and faint bruises dotted her neck, collarbone and the swells of her breasts, marks of his teeth and fingers claiming her over and over. With deft fingers, she applied a light layer of concealer, blending it until the skin looked flawless, though the sensitivity lingered, making her nipples tighten at the mere brush of fabric.

the elder says, clasping our hands together. The sensation is like fireworks exploding through my chest. She feels it too but tamps down her surprise as the length of white fabric is wound around our aching hands, keeping them firmly clasped together. I hold her gaze, shocked. Is this… I’ve heard of imprinting, but this is different. This feels…

​She wears a tailored white suit that screams quiet luxury. ​She is holding a long black garment bag in one hand. ​She smiles at me like we are just two normal people getting ready for a party. ​It is the same practiced, loving expression she always uses when other people are watching. ​Except Damien isn't here right now. ​I know the horrifying truth hiding behind her perfect teeth. ​The realization makes my stomach churn. ​She stole me. ​She fed me toxic herbs for years just to keep my true nature dormant. ​"Good morning, sweetheart," she says, stepping further into the room.

She appears vulnerable, much like a delicate doe. As I extend my left hand, Irena instinctively attempts to withdraw, yet I swiftly grasp her hair in my fist, eliciting a feeble whimper from her. With measured intent, I draw her nearer, though not so close as to make contact. Leaning in, I inhale the alluring aroma of her, redolent of honey and vanilla. Oh Lord, this woman emits a delicious scent. With an expression of trepidation, her eyes widen and her breath accelerates.

At once, I tower over her. I do not say a word—I think my silence is more imposing than anything I could utter. I notice of her damp hair, the curls clings to her neck and shoulders, still fresh from the shower. The scent of bubbles and soap lingers in the air and she places a hand on her chest, instinctively pushing the fabric higher to cover her exposed skin. “You’re—” “You are injured.”

Honey-struck, wolf-mad Nikolai just wants to sink his face into the source of that delicious scent and drown in her screams. “Please, please, don’t be cruel, please” she mumbled, her newly shortened hair a wild bird’s nest as she arched against the metal door. Our shadows danced against the grey concrete walls, lit only by the torch on the floor. I watched in fascination as she tried to put her own fingers inside herself as she bucked against my thumb desperately seeking her denied release. I roughly moved her hand away. “No, that’s not going to happen.”

When she left, her hair was shining, soft, and perfumed. The usual straightness gained waves at the tips, her nails were treated and covered in wine-colored nail polish. Her eyebrows were done, and her body was depilated—and she swore to herself that every drop spilled for pain would be worth it in the end.

She giggled then, the sound light and tinkling, but her eyes gleamed with dark delight, savoring the irony. Rising gracefully from the bed, her nightgown flowing around her like a quiet stream, she padded across the room. "Oh well, who can blame a girl for speeding things up?" Her tone dripped with feigned sweetness, but inside, triumph coiled like a serpent. The pack's tearing at each other was... masterful. And now... to seal her hold on him. She approached the place where she had kept the Black Hemlock Oil, took one bottle, opened it with her teeth and tilted it back, swallowing the contents in one gulp.

she whimpered, biting her lower lip. “Shhh,” I hushed her, knowing whatever she said now, in that dangerously sensual tone, would shatter the last remnants of my self-restraint. “Sienna, I want us to ruin these fur linings so bad — with friction, and sweat, and cum — that I have to change them today.”