Kristina Romanova Age Novels & Stories

She looks so pretty with her striking blue eyes and glossy brown hair, her nose and mouth were in perfect shape, but her fair skin looked so dry, as if she had not applied body lotion for weeks. "I'm twenty-one, I had her when I was seventeen," Christiana said. She doesn't know why she felt at ease with Kayla. She has never told anyone about her child, not even those she has been working with for months. "Let's go sit over there and talk," I said. "No, we're not allowed to do that" Christiana said. "Ohh" I sighed. "So she's four, what's her name?" I asked interestingly.. "Sabrina" Christiana smiled.

She wants to be fat— well, not that fat. "By the way, how old are you again?" Ivan asked while eating. Krysie gulped her food before answering. "I'm eighteen, how about you?" "Nineteen." Ivan showed his boyish grin. She would probably be lying if she'll say he's not handsome. Actually, he is. She's not numb not to notice how girls around her react whenever Ivan showed his panty-dropping smile. Too bad, Carson's smile is much better for her.

' "So, you're..." "Krystal Harding, but you can call me Madame Krys!" Krea lit a cigarette and glanced at Lina from the corner of her eye. "Or do you want to call me Krea like the others? That's up to you!" Renee leaned closer to Lina, fear evident in her eyes. Krystal appeared to be in her 40s, heavily adorned with makeup, and dressed provocatively. Her dark red dress accentuated her curvaceous figure. However, time seemed to have taken its toll on her, evident in the lines on her face.

- Natalya asked confused, holding her back. - You animal. You know it? - Saying this, Monika Vardanovna poked her nose and lips into Natalya's bull neck. You are 21 years old, I am 10 years older than you. The directors come to me with a bow so that I sign their people for work, and you just took it and stuck my face in your hole like that. You animal. The beast. You are a dumb sheep. Monika Vardanovna tore herself away from her neck. For a few seconds, she looked at Natalya's perplexed face. Then she dug into her lips with a smeared mouth and stuck her tongue out.

As soon as her fingers touched the smooth flat silver surface, it lit up like a Xmas tree. On the dashboard, another screen came up beneath the first, and what looked like faces started flashing by. It stopped what seemed like two minutes later, and there was a picture of a very young girl there. She couldn't be more than five or six. "Roxanna Carmichael. Age twenty-three." Mancini's voice intoned as the rest of us grew silent.

Mafia princess Anastasia Rostova is not your conventional Mafia princess. Betrothed to old, senile, sadistic Lev Avilov since she was just five, Anastasia has avoided home for years, running off to England for studies. But with her twentieth birthday approaching quickly, she knows she has no choice. It's either she married Lev, or her father and everyone one else she holds dear...die.

he said. "Katerina Morozova. Ash-blond. Grey eyes. Originally from the Velgorod pack. Left the city approximately five years ago under—" Irina chose her next word with care "—difficult circumstances." She paused. "She's been working out of St. Krest. The theater restoration there was hers. It got published." Dmitri opened the folder.

"You'd actually do that to Ana—" “Anastasia is twenty-one, turning twenty-two this year,” Alexander sighed, fingers lightly drumming the edge of his chair. He looked older than he had just an hour ago. The glow of the fire painted his face in shades of amber and shadow, highlighting the hollowed lines beneath his cheekbones. “She is the Empress of Nochten,” he said carefully, almost dragging the words out as if hated them him self. “She will need a husband.” The careful way he spoke, as if each word had been weighed and measured, made it sound like a death sentence.

She looked back at Romeo. "Good.” Romeo smiled warmly. "I just need to ask you a few standard questions to check your brain function. It’s protocol. Can you tell me your full name?" "Isabella." She breathed out. "Isabella Santiago." Not Galante. Santioago. Mateo’s surname. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. "Thank you, Isabella." Romeo nodded. "Can you tell me how old you are?" "Twenty-one." My chest caved in. She was twenty- nine. She had just lost eight entire years of her life. It was the time she married Mateo. The time before Elena.

“The real story. Not the file.” I stared at the ceiling. Firelight danced across the beams. “She was nineteen when she met Sergei Kovalev. He was already powerful. Ruthless. She was the daughter of a minor pakhan. Beautiful. Defiant. They called her the Ice Princess because she never cried. Not even when he beat her.” Valerio’s arm tightened around me.