Invisible Thread Book Novels & Stories

To him, time was like an interloping of threads, all related to each other and the ultimate space, and in rare, yet possible cases, it was possible to bend those threads. Threads...threads of time...it rang a bell, but I wasn't sure where I had heard it from. I closed the book and fell on the chair. Time travel? Me? For what? So I can re-live some of the worst years of my life? I held my hair in handfuls and yelled, hoping that if I yelled hard enough, some miracle will take place and take me back to the time I belong. I have already lived past this. This is not my life any more.

I forced myself to breathe. Maxwell. Undead. Kidnapped children. And then something else clicked in my mind. The book. Maxwell’s ritual book. I closed my eyes for a moment and reached inward. Past the noise. Past the tension pressing against my skin. Into the endless calm of the void. The shadows stirred immediately. They had been waiting. Something moved inside the darkness, gliding through the silent expanse like a memory returning home. A moment later the object slipped through the veil and into my hands.

I ran my fingers along the spines, listening to the silence and allowing it to guide me. And then, I felt something like a whisper in my bones. My hand stopped on a book so large that it nearly spanned the width of the shelf. Its cover was unmarked, bound in cracked black leather that felt cold to the touch. No title, no author. It was just looking heavy. I pulled the book, and the shelf behind it groaned as if relieved. I sat on the floor, back against the wall, and opened it. The pages of the book were yellow I. Color, the ink is faded but legible. The script was archaic, looping and sharp like claws etched into paper.

The title, embossed in deep crimson, read *The Bondage Codex: A Victorian Manual of Restraint and Ecstasy*. “Tonight’s text is more demanding,” he said, voice low and smooth as he opened the book. The pages shimmered faintly as if alive. “It requires full physical compliance. The ink will bind you, and it grows tighter when you make sound. You will read the instructions aloud while I follow them precisely. Do not stop reading, no matter how desperate you become.” My thighs pressed together instinctively. “Yes, Mr. Thorne.” He guided me to an antique rolling library ladder fixed against one of the taller shelves. “Climb three steps and turn to face me. Arms raised and gripping the sides.”

I held the book in my hand and turned it over. “Why did you get this?” I asked, the book had been released while I was away. By A Thread by Lucy Score. Prior to being taken I had wanted nothing more than a big glass of wine and to curl up in my room and read this. “Because you needed something to make you smile. Even if it’s a fictional world with a grumpy boss. Plus you can pretend he’s me.” His lips quirk into a smirk and I feel myself shudder. “Read to me.” I say softly holding the book out to him. He grins and grabs the book and opens it. “With pleasure.”

“Doubt keeps you alive.” He reached for a book from the nearest shelf and flipped it open. The pages were blank. “Do you know why my library has no dust?” I shook my head. “Because the books breathe,” he said. “They exhale what others forget.” He offered the book to me. The pages shifted—faint outlines forming, fading, forming again. Names, dates, a line of ink that moved like a pulse: Evelyn Blackthorne arrived under a waning moon. I slammed it shut. “You’re writing my story.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and descend. The air down here is cooler, thicker with the smell of leather and dust and secrets. Torches have guttered out, but faint violet light clings to the edges of things—my new sight, maybe, or the contract’s gift. The shadows dance ahead of me, playful almost, skipping along the shelves until they reach a particular bookcase. One tendril stretches, points. A heavy black tome launches itself from the highest shelf and thumps into my waiting hands. I stagger under the weight. The book is bound in leather so dark it drinks the light; no gold leaf, no embossed sigils, just smooth, inky blackness. The title is etched in silver that seems to shift when I ti

And he felt, maybe his previous love will forgive him if it is Sanvika. So he opened the book and looked at the flower. The wind brushed through making it look like the flower will blow off any moment. He took a minute and held the book up the wind. A strong wind blew the flower off. They watched as the wind carried it to the edge of the water. A wave washed it into the sea… A silent moment.

I have feelings to consider, to understand and to feel that I just waited for someone that I deserve their love and deserves mine. I just bumped into someone who's fine-looking, he's named Articus Lawson. My future husband, the one that I am looking for. A tall guy with high regard to everyone. You kissed my forehead while laying down at your limb, you're holding a red thread and you tied it to our pinky fingers and asked, " You know this?" I looked at your dazzling eyes but I have no clue what it was for. " It is the Red ​Thread of Fate". I just closed my eyes. It was the last that I saw you and I couldn't ever open my eyes again. My last tears touched you, hope in our next life I can abut

Maybe I didn't want to. He reached for the tatty brown leather satchel he'd brought with him from the Vaults and tugged it towards him, pulling it onto his lap. There was a strange wistful look in his eyes as he ran his hand over the bag, finding the small hairline cracks in the leather and tracing them with his fingertips. With a sigh, he unbuckled both the straps and opened it, reaching in carefully to retrieve what looked like a hand-bound book, crammed with pages that seemed to be made from different kinds of paper and not all cut to the same size. Some pages were thicker with battered edges, some so thin they could have been made from spiderwebs. Ethan laid his palm on top of the book a