Looking Through My Window Book Novels & Stories

I know I'm reading the words but nothing is translating back - it's frustrating to say the least. I sigh, my eyes finding their way to the living room window. It's a relatively nice day out with only a few scattered clouds. I barely have time to register my movements as I'm abandoning my book and making my way on to the front porch. I'm not technically leaving the house. I'll stay close.

Then, with a dull thud that echoed around the silent room, I shut the book. My gaze shifted toward the grand arched window. It was evening now. Outside, the sky was painted in a bruise-like gradient of deep violet and twilight blue, the gloomy clouds hanging low over the pack grounds while the cool air whistled softly against the glass panes. The quiet beauty of the territory felt suffocating, a stark reminder of the gilded cage Creighton was slowly building around me.

Chapter 48 POV: Clara The side garden sat dark by the time I cut through it, boots still damp from the stable floor, the study window glowing gold and warm against the evening ahead of me like something out of a painting I hadn't been invited into. I wasn't spying. I want to be clear about that, at least to myself, because the word makes it sound like I planned it, and I didn't. I'd just come back from the stables and cut through the side garden on my way in, and the study window was lit up gold against the evening, and I looked in because that's what you do when a lit window is right there in front of you.

The sun was high up in the sky and rays from it landed on my skin and the book in my hands. It was a leather- bound book with yellow pages. I could tell the book had been written way before any of us in the mansion was born. I glanced up from the book occasionally to look out of the window. The garden was just within my view and I enjoyed the sound of the birds chirping. I had a couple of pictures of the garden from my room and it was such an excellent view.

She looked at the window. November dark. The ridge out there. Patient. Permanent. She did not put her hand on the glass. She just looked at it. She thought: there it is. She thought: there it always is. She breathed. She went to sleep. The morning came. End of Chapter Forty-Nine.

The plumbing in this realm is seriously lacking. I head back to my room, planning to continue reading the demon book, when something suddenly hits the window. I pause. What the hell was that? I stare at the glass. Nothing looks different. Did I imagine it? It’s not like hard objects can just fall from the tree above unless there are fiery acorns I somehow don’t know about. I’m pretty sure I would’ve heard of flying acorns by now. Then something invisible strikes the glass again. And again. And again.

Alika's POV The sky outside the window faded into a sickly gray-green, like it was about to vomit a storm long held back. Wind twisted between the old library’s windows, slipping in through tiny cracks, carrying with it a chill that burrowed straight into my bones. My hand trembled as I turned the final page of the ancient tome Anindya left behind—a book that had already stolen my sleep, and tonight, threatened to steal my peace. The pages were frail, like dying skin left too long under the sun. Strange symbols etched across each leaf, pulsing faintly as if I were touching the heartbeat of something still alive.

I saw him, through smoked glass, unlocking the door. I scurried across a patch of young grass and sat down beneath one of the windows that faced into the square. I thought it was a kitchen window, for no better reason than its proximity to a large waste pipe, which could have meant nothing. I waited for a light to illuminate some of the grass, but when it did, it was at the side of the house and I had to creep round. There was a tiny crack between the window frame and the blind if I was very, very careful, I could just fit my eye in that space and take a look.

“the rogues will soon rise and the packs shall burn.” I read it again and again, fingers trembling.I looked out my window, to the edge of the forest. And for a split second, I swore I saw red eyes watching me through the trees.

I went to the window and pressed my palm against the glass and looked at the garden in the first full light of morning — green and still and locked behind two inches of reinforced glass and twenty-two minutes of patrol. Outside. Still wanting it. Still here. I picked up the fourth book — the one I hadn't started yet, chosen by a man who had read my file and found patterns I hadn't known were there — and I sat in the chair by the window. His chair. I sat in his chair and I opened the book and I read. I didn't examine why I had chosen his chair. Some things you file without looking at them first.