Leatherface Novels & Stories

He's white snowy hair gelled backwards,lips held in a tight purse and facial expression almost unreadable He's walking steps light but yet could make someone hold their breaths He's right hand assistant;Tikka dressed in a black leather jeans and black jacket held a pillow carrying a pistol. Immediately he stepped into the room, Lewis yanked the pistol and with astonishing accuracy shot a man on the head "Boss "Tikka muttered sliently. She's not surprised he killed without a second thought After all He's Lewis Flyheart;the most ruthless mafia in the whole country. He's the CEO of Flyheart empire but yet he's freaking dangerous. His family background;unknown

"How have you been all these valuable while?" "Cut the crap." "Still so hostile, huh? Bitches bitch around all the time, you know, so don't feel bad for bitc—" The leather outfit guy's jaw sunk in a flash instantly dislodging the viewers. He paused any further movement with a raised hand as he pivoted his head back to his attacker with a bleeding nose. "Okay..no rusty musty. The extraordinary strength's still intact. Nice." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "What do you want?"

“Non versare una lacrima per lui. Il Bastardo l'aveva in arrivo. [Don't shed a tear for him. The bastard had it coming.] One of the men whispers in my ear with a hint of laughter coating his dark voice. He smells of stale tobacco and cheap bourbon, which corresponds to the attire he has deemed appropriate for his line of work. An imitation leather jacket that resembles the knock-off gold chain around his neck and the fake diamond stud in his earlobe. Worn with black, washed-out, knee-ripped jeans and black, top-heavily-scuffed combat boots. “Tutte le mie lacrime mi appartengono. Se scelgo di liberarmene per Amani, lo farò. [All my tears belong to me. If I choose to shed them for Amani, I wil

The bottom of the bag had heeled leather boots that would come up past my calf. “And I can’t wear heels,” I added, handing the bag back to them. “First of all, it’s not leather. It’s some super stretchy fabric that looks like leather. Secondly, you need this,” Wolf explained patiently. “You’re going to be a personality. Like the WWF fighters. The vest has a hood and a mask. They won’t be able to see your face. We want to call you the Slayer.”

He stood at the end of the long hallway, nostrils flaring. My father spun to face the threat, shoving me behind him at the same time. But I had gotten a glimpse of the death-bringer. The image seared into my brain. Alpha Leander was bigger than life, chest so broad he filled what remained of the charred hallway. Sinewy muscles flexed and contracted with each ragged breath. Pitch black hair shined like mica even with the clinging dirt and falling bits of debris. A short, neatly trimmed 5 o'clock shadow, goatee and mustache framed the sharp-edged cleft of his jaw and emphasized his straight nose and high crested cheeks. His face was made up of angles, all hard and severe. And all man.

Leah and Lance. The wolves had completely different fighting styles than their human counterparts. They lunged for the Collectors. Leah’s terrifying black wolf went straight for the throat of a particularly large Collector. He was a darker-skinned man with matted brown hair. His eyes were filled with that swirling white vacancy all Collectors possessed. The entire right side of his face had rotted away, revealing damaged teeth and a dingy grey skull. Leah’s wolf clamped its jaws around the large man’s neck. There was an audible pop as his throat shut in on itself. He let out a gurgled cry. The wolf shook its dark muzzle until the head was hanging on by the thinnest layer of skin. Only then d

He gives me a smile and grabs my hand. (What’s your name mate?) he asks curiously. (I’m Mila Gibson and you?) I ask. (That’s a beautiful name. I’m Adam Thompson.) He replies. (What pack are you from Adam?) I ask innocently. (I’m the future beta of the Crescent Moon Pack.) He says proudly. I pull my hand away from him slowly, and he looks at me confused. (Is something wrong?) He asks confused. (I’m sorry, but I have plans and this is not part of them.) I whisper.

My brother is lucky to have her. Against my wishes, Drake has organized for an holiday away from the pack. He has managed to convince me to get some reconstructive surgery once we get to our destination so as to mend the scar on my face, the scar I have always admired as a badge of honor. I will now get it removed and no one will ever call me Scarface again. It's a name I was willing to accept but now it goes.

"Please help me... I can't die..." In that moment, something inside her snapped. A sharp pain eent through her body, starting from her spine and then manifesting outside. Her Bones cracked and shifted, muscles contorted and reformed. She could feel her skin stretching, fur shooting out in its place. Her vision blurred, but she didn't falter. Her transformation was complete in seconds, leaving her not as a human, but as a wolf.

He strides in, a massive figure in leather, his face a war zone, a jagged scar cutting across his cheek from jaw to temple, one eye a cloudy white, the other deep and relentless, trapping me like a rabbit in a trap. That tattoo, a sun divided by a claw, identifies him distinctly: Sun Pack. His voice rumbles deep, harsh like cracked rock, slicing through the air like a knife. “Go ahead and run, girl, and I’ll bring you to Jason myself.”