Into The Darkest Hour Novels & Stories

Lyph is notorious killer. She kills for a living. Either good or bad, Innocent or not. She simply doesn't care. Her heart has nothing but emptiness, She is completely heartless. All of this was a result of all the betrayals and hate she experienced in this world. She walked the darkest path, people can't even imagine, she sought for satisfaction through all the things she do to ease her desire, she had long hold unto. Yet unexpectedly she experienced another betrayal which pierced her deep. The noment dhe woke up all her desires disappeared like a bubble, leaving her with nothing but warmth.

Highschool teenager-cum-proclaimed superheroine, Natasha Johnson, climbs up the ranks of the academic ladder as she and her friends get into Senior Year at North Atlanta High when a new student joins them out of nowhere. The budding romance between Natasha and this student ends up boring a hole in her friendship wit the rest, resulting into a mayhem of love, secrets, blood and worst of all—betrayal—one that will come as a revelation of an upcoming war and the return of an all-too-familiar character who will aid Natasha a.k.a the Viper and her team. Together, they must all embark on a perilous time-bending mission in order to stop and evil that has risen from the darkest depths of the Darkforce before literal hell is unleashed on earth.

Yvonne Larson, my housekeeper, has always been punctual, but she ends up being late today. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Carter. Dinner's not ready yet. I hope you won't mind. I had no choice. I waited for over half an hour, but no one got the door for me. I even called Mrs. Carter a few times, but she didn't take my calls. That's why I ended up running late." Halfway through changing into my house slippers, I pause and frown. "Yvonne, didn't Susanna give you the access card to the apartment?" Yvonne looks confused. "The access card? Mrs. Carter never gave me any card." "Never?" "That's right," Yvonne confirms timidly while wiping the sweat off her brow. "For the past month, I've always had to call Mrs. Carter and ask her to open the door for me. She wasn't picking up her phone today, so I had to wait outside…" That's strange. I've checked the logs before. The access card has been used multiple times throughout the past month.

After my mother shot down my pleas to cover my medical bills the 100th time, I clutched my bone cancer diagnosis papers and trudged to the crematorium. "Hi, I'd like to reserve a cremation slot ahead of time," I muttered to the clerk. Half an hour ticked by before my parents and adopted brother arrived in their car. My dad, a forensic pathologist, cracked me across the face. "You're pulling a fake-death stunt now, just to steal the spotlight from your brother?" My mom, a hospital director, snatched the papers from my hands and shredded them into confetti. "Faking records using my credentials and tying up hospital resources? You've crossed the line!" My brother cried, tugging at their sleeves. "It's all my fault. I'll skip the amusement park forever. I don't need a thing. Just quit riling up Mom and Dad." I spun around, my hand pressed against my throbbing chest, and begged the crematorium staff. "Please, when it's time, cremate me and scatter the ashes in the river. I've got no family left in this world."

On the tenth day of my postpartum recovery, my husband, Deputy Commander Harvey Wyatt, uploads a photo of me breastfeeding my newborn in a disheveled state to the department's group chat. Obviously, that photo was taken without my knowledge. "See? After having a kid, she's as loose as a sack. It makes me sick just looking at her. I much prefer my side piece, who's nice and tight." A few female colleagues send sweating emojis to the group. The majority of the chat, however, consists of the male colleagues' perverse silence. While I continue to burp my baby with one hand, my tears land on the screen. In order to give birth to this baby, my pelvic bone was sawn in half, which causes me so much pain that I can't even walk properly. But all I get in return is my own husband body-shaming me in front of hundreds of people. I don't bother arguing with Harvey at all. Half an hour later, I drag my broken body all the way to the commander's office with a divorce agreement as well as the chat history over the past ten days, which has been printed out, in my hands.

On the night of our eighth anniversary, I cooked everything Ethan loved. He didn't come home. I sat alone at the table until the food went cold. Then I did what I always did. I opened Selene's profile on the pack network. New post. One hour ago. A photo of Ethan, shirtless, building a fire in her den. Her hand on his shoulder. Her face turned toward the camera with a smile that showed too many teeth. The caption read: Grateful for old friends who drop everything when you need them. Even their marking anniversaries. I stared at it until my eyes burned. Then I liked it. Filed the bond-dissolution request. And started packing the trunk I'd kept ready for months. Ethan didn't believe it when he found out. "She's throwing a fit," I heard he told his packmates. "Give her three days." "I'll crook my finger and she'll come running back." "She always does." What he didn't understand was why I always came back. It was because I loved him. That was gone now.

My lawyer wife’s assistant got into trouble again. This time, he had been driving at nearly sixty miles an hour in a residential neighborhood and crashed into my seventy-year-old mother, sending her flying. My mother had gotten paralyzed from the accident after suffering fractures in dozens of places. She would be bedbound for the rest of her life. My wife represented her assistant in court again. She claimed that my mother had intentionally gotten in the path of her assistant’s vehicle to get compensation money, and that was how the crash happened. She pushed all the responsibility back on my mother. In the end, her assistant was pronounced innocent and released, while I had to pay him for damages. “Tyson, he’s just a twenty-five-year-old kid. He knows nothing. If he got sent to jail, his life would be ruined. Don’t pursue this with him.” After the lawsuit, the assistant rushed to make an online post. [My lawyer’s so gorgeous. She’s an angel of justice!] Florence liked the post right in front of me. Meanwhile, I stayed so calm it was scary. “Let’s get a divorce, Florence.”

Outside the ER, a woman clad in luxury brands is in the middle of lashing out hysterically at a camera. "That stupid deliveryman is the one responsible for crashing my two-million-dollar Porsche! He even tried to steal my Hermès bag that was inside in the car! When I caught him red-handed, he tried to assault me, too! "If he doesn't pay me 500 thousand dollars today, I'll make sure that he spends the rest of his life in jail!" As soon as the woman is done, she collapses to the floor while clutching her chest. Obviously, she's faking her collapse. How can a mother this vile possibly exist in this world? Half an hour ago, that woman has locked her three-year-old son up in her car—that's exposed under the bright sun—just so she can go to a beauty spa for cosmetic procedures. In order to save the dying child, I have no choice but to smash the window. But that woman now paints me as the bad guy in this situation and insists on ruining my life. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't notice the action camera on my helmet.

After five years of marriage, my wife’s childhood friend posted a photo of a property deed in his social media circle with the caption, [Thank you, Miss CEO, for transferring the house to me.] I was stunned when I saw the address on the deed—it was my home. Confused, I left a comment. [?] Almost immediately, my wife, Alice, called and scolded me. "He’s a single dad, so pitiful! I only transferred the house to his name to make it easier for his daughter to attend school. It doesn’t affect us living there. How can you be so heartless and lack even a shred of compassion?" In the background, I could hear her childhood friend complaining bitterly. Half an hour later, he posted on social media again and tagged me. This time, he showed off a $150,000 sports car with the caption, [Paid in full! As the saying goes, where a woman spends her money is where her heart lies.] I knew it was my wife who bought him the car to make up for upsetting him. But this time, I’ve made up my mind—I’m filing for divorce.

“I have signed the divorce.” “Go then, weak Beta, and never say that you were part of my pack, let alone that you were my wife. I am ashamed.” “It is well. Goodbye, Baitana” “My name is Aitana” says Aitana with a lump in her throat. “As you wish. Now go away, if you spend more than an hour they can arrest you for breaking and entering.” “Ok, I'm leaving.” says Aitana turning around as she leaves behind the love of her life and her past. As soon as she leaves, the doors close and she puts her hand to her belly. ‘I'm sorry mom, I had to do it’ Aitana says to herself mentally. Aitana leaves and a few minutes later, the butler receives news that sends him running to his boss's office. “Sir!” “Don't shout, I'm not deaf.” “The lady...” “She has finally signed the divorce. Finally, I'm free.” “It's not that, Madame is pregnant.” “What did you say?” shouts the alpha, making his butler tremble. “I...” “Go get her right now!”