Khal Moro Novels & Stories

He was mute and his gaze travelled from her head down to her toes, she saw something in those grey eyes of his, something she'd seen the day he had kissed her. "I..I wan...want to go and see Cara" Dala stuttered "I'll tell one of the my subjects to accompany you and show you directions and to ensure you return...safely" kamur said On her way to find Cara, she saw a figure from afar that looked like that of Princess Amira. She had to find out. "Who could that be?" She asked the lady who Kamur had asked to follow her anywhere she wanted to go. More like her maid. Her name was Sita

Bethany Wright. Self acclaimed queen bee of Malcolm High. Head of the cheerleading squad and girl friend to the most popular guy in school, Christian Hales. It was such a wonder how cool headed, reserved Christian landed himself such a bitch. She was definitely with him for the money, the fame, and definitely the sex. News fly around the school and Makaila's ears were always open for the gist.

When diplomacy failed, when whispers in dark rooms grew teeth, when threats didn’t listen to reason—Khael made sure they never spoke again. He had a code, yes, but not the kind you’d pin to any knight’s crest. Khael’s morality bends and folds like smoke, curling around his own sense of right and wrong, never quite fitting anyone else’s mold. He kills when he must, never for pleasure—but always without remorse. And then, just as effortlessly, he heals. That’s the contradiction of him.

“They were too noisy, mo pheata.” Gator shakes his head at Sidhe, causing a piece of his purplish raven hair to fall over one of his steel grey eyes. “Overkill as usual, ma Doudou,” he says then sweeps his hair back into place with a tattooed bronzed hand. Gator or Tee is an MMA champion and a former gang leader from Louisiana. “Yep, but you love me!” Sidhe says before kissing Gator. Here we go again. I roll my eyes. This is normal for the Death Kings.

Something with the way he smiled, did not set well with her, there was a starnge jealousy, something she oculd not name, something she did not want to name. Buried herself in work and a romantic book was her exit from the world however now, someone was occupying her mind nowadays. Something that did not set well with her morals. . Later that day Ansuhka was instructed to give Abhinn and Dinesh the resume file, at last she was given two resumes, one of them was janvi’s to call her and issue an appointment letter to her as the new ielts teacher at STRAIGHLINE the starnge ache was back in her chest

“Did he talk to you?” He nods, looking from Emma to me, his hand still holding hers. “He seems to be disconnected from my wolf. A being on its own. He introduced himself as Moros.” ‘Yes! Brother is finally here,’ Aamon celebrates in my head, Jax literally rolling his eyes at him. “Well… That’s fucked up, but—” My breath gets stuck in my throat, my sight blackening out. ‘Report!’ a command jolts through me painfully. Jax retreats into the back of my head while Aamon screams bloody murder.

Alonzo’s limousine sped away into the night. “Are you okay?” Markos asked, his tone softer now. I nodded, though my hands were still shaking. The thought that something could have happened was appalling. “Thank you. I don’t know what he was planning, but it didn’t feel right.” Markos’s expression hardened. “Alonzo is a sex trafficker, Hazel. You need to be careful.” I furrowed my eyebrows at him. “How do you know?” He didn’t answer me. Instead, he opened the passenger door for me and gestured for me to enter. The tension between us was palpable, the silence was heavy, filled with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

Gentle waves lapped against the private beach while a soft sea breeze rustled the palm fronds overhead. Aisha Machel, a 26-year-old Mozambican diamond and tourism heiress with smooth caramel skin, long dark curls, and a lithe yet voluptuous figure, stood on the private deck in a sheer white bikini. The warm breeze pressed the fabric against her hardened nipples and the growing heat between her thighs. She had come for a private escape. She found something far more consuming. The villa door slid open. Khalid “The King” Mphahlele, the world-famous Black Mozambican music producer and entrepreneur, stepped onto the deck. Towering at 6’10” with a powerfully athletic build, his dark skin gleamed u

A man who’s beautiful in an almost unsettling way lounges against the wall, angular features and silver jewelry at his wrists and throat catching the lamplight. The third person is a man built like a stone wall, covered in scars, watching me with patient gray eyes that suggest he’s seen things most people haven’t. Davren gestures to each in turn. “This is Kiera, Vessel of the Hunt Goddess and experienced volunteer for Kael’s channeling. Theron, who serves Lysander exclusively and has done so for three years. And Marcus, who specializes in Morven’s rituals and understands the requirements of Death better than anyone currently living.”

Roman was now second in charge—that didn’t sit well with Max. Max then switched to an image of Viktor Maslov. “As we know, the Russian has been Khalid’s bodyguard for the past five years. That hasn’t changed. The man does not exactly blend in, built like a tank. Not just any tank, like a freaking M1-J10 Main Battle Tank. He makes Johnny look like a flea.” Johnny grunted. “Give me five minutes in a ring with the Russian bear, and I’ll rip his spleen out.” Max’s mouth curved up dangerously. “I didn’t say he’s better than you, just a bit larger. He shouldn’t be hard to spot once they step onto South African soil. Mandla has his canaries on the lookout in every suburb and border-entry points.”