Martha Martha Speaks Novels & Stories

Martha explained, staring right into my furious eyes. “She reminded me so much of Star…I just couldn’t, Alex,” her body trembled against mine and I knew how hard it was for her, especially as she was separated from her daughter so rudely. “I know, Martha,” I whispered, my voice softening as I stroked her arm. “Please help me, Alex. I don’t think I can take it anymore. I want to speak to my daughter, at least hear her voice or something,” her voice was pleading now.

The house fell painfully silent—except for Martha’s sobs. And the pounding of my own heart. “MOMMY! MOMMY!” Martha’s screams ripped through the house—raw, frantic, shaking the walls as if she could summon her mother by sheer desperation. I crouched in front of her, hands hovering uselessly. “Martha, hey—look at me,” I tried softly. “She’s okay. She’s safe. You’ll see her—soon, baby, just calm down—” But she tore away from my touch, choking on her own breaths.

I warned, shaking in anger. "That is it. Yes, that is the problem. You don't care about progress, you don't care about expanding. Just take a look at the packs around us, they are way better than this backward stricken pack of ours. Don't you dare blame me for taking matters into my hand while you act like the local champ you are," Martha scowled, downing the remaining wine in her glass to cool her temper.

“Oookay, who?” Martha pursed her lips, taking a deep breath. “Zheira.” She looked away with an awkward smile. “Zheira Martin.”

Avery's POV “Miss!” Martha screamed in panic, banging the door continuously. “Miss! Please open up. You are scaring me,” Martha confessed exhaustedly, as she continued to bang on the door. I had been quiet for a long time because I didn't know how my voice would sound if I spoke up. “I am fine Martha, please go back to sleep,” I finally said, trying to sound as calm and normal as possible. Who was I kidding, my voice didn't sound anything close to normal but I hoped Martha wouldn't notice.

Frustrated by her continuous silence, Tom held her shoulders between his hands as he gave her a little hard shake. “Talk to me, dammit. I have apologised for what happened and I even made a promise not to repeat it even though it was the best night of my life, the best sex of my life as a matter of fact.” Tom told her with a scream but his voice was so low on the last few notes, Martha had to strain her ears to hear him. ‘Am I hallucinating or did Tom just say the best sex of his life?’ About to run mad with different things running through her head, Martha gave her head a brusque shake.

Martha said and went back to her work post. Martha is my best friend. We became friends three years ago when I started working at Mrs. Smith's boutique. She helped me a lot when I was newly employed, such as how to stay calm when I attended to snorty customers because I was very short-tempered. She has mud-brown hair, sky-blue eyes, and plump lips. Her face was dotted with freckles which only added to her unique beauty. She was of average height and very curvy in the right places. I've always envied her beauty. Martha is a man-lover; she fawns over any handsome man she sees. She has had a few heartbreaks in the past, but that doesn't seem to bother her. Nevertheless, I still love her.

I thought under my breath, toes curling in my sandals. “Huh? What do you mean?” Martha poured me a glass—thankfully not quite as full as her own—and screwed the bottle shut again, putting it somewhere down the table. “I mean that she can take down grown Alphas and make them look like amateurs.” “Martha, please,” I whined, my fingers curling around the glass, squirming in my seat. “Hush, dear! I am proud of you.” “Not something I would be happy about,” I murmured under my breath, swirling the liquid in my glass, watching as it sloshed around the rim. Taking a sip, my shoulders slouched, the bitter taste flooding my mouth.

She spoke to me not just as a healer, but as family. “All you have to do now is mate with her,” Martha said suddenly. My head snapped toward her, eyes widening. The basket nearly slipped from my hands. “Mate?” “Yes.” Her tone was blunt, unflinching. “Mating. Like sex.” Her words punched the air out of my lungs. My heart slammed against my ribs, each beat louder than the last. I swallowed hard, but my throat was dry. “That’s the only way you’ll be cured,” she continued, her expression unreadable.

I asked while she sighed. "Yes, but it's not my right to tell you about someone's past it her you need to talk it out." I pouted. "But she doesn't even talk to me. What should I do?" Martha smiled before saying. "Then go try to talk to her. She won't scare you away." She laughed. "You think it's that easy?" She nodded her head. "Go!" She pushed me out of the kitchen. I never felt so scared talking to someone before. I'm not even an introvert, so why the hell am I feeling so nervous?