Julian Novels & Stories

"I don't want the assistant anymore, Julian. I want this. I want you." Julian growled, a low, primal sound of victory. He surged forward, claiming her fully, his body filling hers with a devastating force that made the world go white. Elena cried out, her head falling back against the furs, her fingers clutching his back as he began a slow, rhythmic assault on her senses.

"When Caleb sold you... I knew I had to step in. I couldn't watch from the shadows anymore. I had to bring you into the fortress." "So..." I sniffled, looking at him. "You aren't the monster?" "Oh, I am a monster, Vivian," Julian said darkly. "Make no mistake. I have killed men. I have burned cities. But I am your monster. I exist to keep the other monsters away from you." He stood up, his demeanor shifting back to the cold, lethal protector. He held out his hand for the phone. "Now," he said, his voice turning to steel. "Give me the phone. I need to see exactly which number Luca Vencetti used to call my wife."

0000 ACTIVE REGIONAL DISPUTES: 0 Julian stood three paces behind my right shoulder. He was wearing an unbuttoned charcoal vest over a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled neatly twice above his wrists. In his hand was a slender silver pencil, tapping an immaculate, rhythmic cadence against the edge of an unbranded leather ledger.

His eyes relaxed, and his rut gone. "I am not making Tonia my fated mate. But she's a good fụck, so let me enjoy her while it lasts," Julian responded, before he got up, went to wash himself, stepped out and wore his clothes. He walked out of my room, leaving James and me.

The delicate flourishes on the numbers, the specific geometric spacing of the letters—it was the exact shorthand he had used in his personal journals before he died in the crags fifteen years ago. Sitting across from me in the dim, velvet-lined interior of the carriage, Julian was silent. He had stripped off his heavy formal mantle, leaving his dark tunic unbuttoned at the throat. His silver eyes were turned toward the frosted window, watching the jagged snowdrifts roll past, but his broad body was primed for violence. The air around him smelled of cold ozone and crushed pine—the sharp, intoxicating scent of his alpha aura when his instincts were on high alert

"You don’t even know this man’s middle name. You’re going to let him stand there and insult us like this?" ​Julian didn't even stand up. He looked over his shoulder at Lucius with a bored expression. "I’m not insulting anyone, Valentine. I’m making an investment in a woman who clearly has more talent in her pinky finger than your entire board has in their heads. And as for my middle name? It’s Alexander. Not that it’s any of your business." ​"Investment?" I asked, looking back down at Julian. "Is that all this is to you?"

He only wanted his queen back, and he was ready to fight the entire world to make it happen. Julian’s eyes flashed with a dangerous determination as he thought about the picture of Shawn Sterling on his feed. He wouldn't just sit down quietly in his luxury room and let those wolves take her away from him. He wouldn't let some rich European guy swoop in and claim what belonged to him just because of a stupid media misunderstanding.

"You dare speak to your mother that way? For this woman?" Julian stepped forward, placing himself between me and his father's fury. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but I knew that stance—the weight balanced on the balls of the feet, the hands loose at his sides. It was the posture he took before violence. "I will say this once," Julian said, his tone conversational, his eyes deadly. "Celeste is my wife. My consorte. The breath in my lungs. If you disrespect her, you disrespect me. And if you disrespect me..." He paused, letting the silence stretch until it hummed like a power line. "Then I have no family. I will burn the

The pack wouldn’t authorize the funds for a human placeholder and frankly. Julian stepped into the foyer, his towering, six-foot-four athletic frame casting a long shadow across the polished marble floor. His sharp, aristocratic features were set in a grim expression, his piercing obsidian eyes reflecting the exhaustion of a grueling border patrol. He unbuttoned his damp tactical jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the console table without looking at her. "You’re still awake," Julian observed. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that sent a familiar, bittersweet shiver down her spine. It wasn’t a greeting; it was a statement

I turned, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. Julian was standing by a long marble kitchen island, a tablet in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other. He was forty-five now, but age had just sharpened him. His hair was starting to go silver at the temples, and he was wearing a navy blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off forearms that were still tan and muscled. He looked at me, and I saw the exact moment the "little girl" image in his head died.