Leather And Lark Audiobook Novels & Stories

Havermouth, Present time Lark was trying a new shade of lipstick, and a new way of wearing her hair, angling her head at the camera of her tablet in order to study the effect. Meguitte watched her through her eyelashes, studying her opponent for weakness. Lark looked up as Meguitte ripped a page from the book. “What are you doing?” She demanded sharply. “Nothing,” Meguitte replied as she began to fold the page. “Just entertaining myself.”

The lazy satisfaction evaporates, replaced by a crackling, primal tension. Lorna lifts her head from my lap, her blue eyes wide. Aida stirs, watching. Dean, Sam, and Orlando straighten up, their focus sharpening. This is it. This is the new itch. Leo finally speaks, his voice a gravelly bass. “You’re asking for a fight, she-wolf.”

Her wet dark curls were pushed back, her cheeks still rosy from the bath. "Papa, you promised!" Liora announced, sliding onto the middle cushion of the wide settee and patting the empty spot right beside her with urgent precision. "You said you would read the story about the Star-Guard Dragon!" Gareth emerged from the adjoining study carrying a heavy, leather-bound volume with faded gold foil along its spine. His usual formal dress coat was gone, replaced by a comfortable, loose-fitting linen shirt and a dark knitted shawl wrapped loosely around his shoulders.

He takes a swig of the rum before closing the cap and looming his gaze on the small imp-like man. “Catch!” The deckhand tosses the flask at the empty hand of Lard. Without looking he is able to catch the drink container in his hand and then places it back into his bag. Next, he uses the same hand to lick at his fingers and turn the page of his book. “You ever stop reading?” Gardax speaks in a sullied manner but Lard does not seem to mind. The smaller figure looms his gaze at his higher-ranking comrade and shrugs his tiny shoulders. “No. should I not? This world we inhabit sucks harder than a whore slurping a goat cock that comes coin. Why the hell wouldn’t I want an escape?” Gardax shrugs hi

It was wonderfully, messily alive. Liora found a stall selling parchment and inks. The old man running it had kind eyes and ink-stained fingers. “Looking for anything special, miss?” he asked. “A blank book,” Liora said. “The biggest one you have.” He smiled and pulled a heavy, leather-bound journal from under his counter. The cover was a rich, dark brown, and the pages were creamy and blank. It smelled of new leather and possibility. As she paid for it, her fingers brushed against the old one in her pack. It felt like saying goodbye to an old friend.

"Proof that you're one of us." I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "What kind of proof?" Thane nodded, and one of the other wolves stepped forward, holding a small, leather-bound book. "This is the Lunar Pack's chronicle," Thane explained. "It contains the history of our pack, including the names of all our members." The wolf opened the book, revealing yellowed pages filled with handwritten text. Thane pointed to a specific entry, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I read the words:

Still, my curiosity — my need — refused to die. A few nights later, I found myself creeping back toward Lord Blackwood’s chambers like a thief in the night. My heart hammered wildly as I pressed myself against the wall beside his door, careful not to make a sound. The noises that greeted me were even more intense than the first time. Low, guttural groans mixed with a woman’s breathy whimpers. The rhythmic slap of skin against skin echoed through the heavy wood. I squeezed my thighs together, already feeling myself grow wet.

“Is it this one bound with leather made from Human skin? Or the one that’s barely bound and falling apart at the seams?” We look at each other, the answer already clear. “The one that’s falling apart,” I say. “Then the one with the Human leather,” August says, shuddering as he put it down. “Our ancestors were batshit.” I just let out a laugh as I flick through the pages of the one that’s falling apart. The paper is so thin that I can feel some particles sticking to the pads of my fingers. I try to rub it off my jeans, a little disconcerted at how quickly this thing seems to be disintegrating.

Neah asks. "Concentrated Lycan life force. Solidified over millennia. It forms in places where Lycan blood was spilled in great quantities. During battles. Rituals. Deaths." Aldara reaches out but doesn't touch it. "This much lunar stone represents hundreds of Lycan lives." The room goes quiet. I move to the shelves. Carefully unwrap one of the cloth bundles. Inside is a book. Hand-bound. Pages made from something that isn't quite paper. The text is in the same ancient script as the door.

For an instant, I swear I see something flicker in the bird’s eyes—red, molten, hungry. Magic. Not the soft, green magic of the forest, but something leaner, meaner, honed by old grudges. Livia glances around. Her posture is wary, yet desperate. She drops something small—a strip of leather, maybe a bone charm—at the raven’s feet. The bird dips its head, grabs the offering, and launches into the dusk, scattering droplets as it goes. The sky shudders with its departure, every shadow stretched long and sharp.