Milkman Novels & Stories

the old man suddenly said in his soft yet firm tone listening to which he looked at old man who was looking at him with same smile which making him more angelic. "You've heard of mirages and musk deer???" old man asked him again. Abhimaan did not give any answer to this. It was not that he did not know about it but he wanted to hear about it from that man's mouth and God knew why??? Old man smiled more seeing his curious eyes and again started “Let me tell you a story today. There is a musk deer which has musk inside, whose fragrance attracts him. He follows her scent to find where it is coming from but he never realizes that it is coming from inside him. He just frantically searches for her

‘I wouldn’t be sendin’ ye otherwise, would I? Lucas had seen enough sense in Maud’s final comment to swallow his fear and go and visit Mr Miller. The mysterious hermit lived in a rundown shack; the structure was squat and shambling—tumbling out onto the beach like a gravity-defying pile of driftwood. If the shack was ramshackle, then old man Miller was equally so. Standing at six feet six inches he was an imposing figure. His wild, white hair and tobacco stained beard made him look like a deranged Santa. And he always wore a heavy, black trench coat. Even on days when the sun beat down on the tangled landscape below.

It was a masterpiece of a facade, a beautiful, polished veneer that hid the rot beneath. Outwardly, he was all pleasant smiles and cultured decency. But inwardly, he was a kingdom of chaos, a man who found joy in the symphony of another's breaking point. The man who could tenderly kiss a woman and extract a man's teeth with the same detached satisfaction one might feel pruning a rose bush. Regan slid into the driver's seat, letting the engine roar to life with a turn of the key. As he pulled away from the warehouse, he glanced in the rearview mirror.

"Unarmed. Dressed in the filthy tunic of a castle cook. He says he’s carrying a private 'relic' that belongs only to our Alpha." I leaned back against the rough wooden chair, my spine protesting with every inch of movement. I pulled the leather mask back over my face. The inside still smelled faintly of copper and sweat, pressing cold against my skin. "Bring him in." The man who walked in was Old Miller. I remembered him. In that gray, suffocating fortress, he was the only one who didn't go out of his way to spill hot broth on my hands during rations. He stood there hunched, clutching his cap with gnarled hands, his eyes glued to the dirt floor.

Poverty would strain any marriage, especially for people like them who were already morally bankrupt and could only share wealth, not hardship. Having lost me as their pillar, their finances became suddenly tight. The place they rented was small and old. Donovan's work remained unstable, and the factory where Sloane worked had inconsistent business.

I did not care about life at the moment, I am just accepting things as they are. Strange, I can not see her. Suddenly the big man that loves to give us to strangers if they have given him something appeared from outside with a larger man than him. The man had almost red eyes, I would call them Grimson. He smelled like something dangerous, feral and I shouldn’t resist his command, well, not that I would anyway. I do as I am told, then I don’t get punished that much.

I guess the devil knows how to put on a disguise, huh? A man with blue eyes and super fair skin approaches me. "Hello there, Mrs. Bianchi," his voice has a unique accent. "Hi," I say. "Mr. Bianchi is one lucky man, huh?" He asks. Damn right he is, but I have to be the “ideal” wife so, I say, "Oh, no I think that I am the lucky one."

Trying to be hospitable, I offered, “Want some milk? Might help you sleep.” He nodded, settling onto the couch. I sighed and started preparing the milk, aiming to get this over with quickly. But his next question froze my hand as I was adding the milk powder to the mug. “Ever heard of the Swiftmane Pack?” he asked, fatigue evident in his voice. I swallowed, trying to gather my composure, “Uhm…not really. Are they a popular pack?” “Unfortunately no” he sighed, “They are a small pack and very secluded”

And in the room, the man's forehead had broken out in a cold sweat; he'd just had another dream, a dream about a few years ago, when he'd gone to Hustleburg and met Serena, who was carrying milk. He lay down and wrapped his arms around the man, as if that would ease the killing that raged in his heart. Their dreams were suddenly linked, and together they recalled the images of the beginning. She asked him to let her go and she said to buy him milk. At that moment, he was clearly murderous, clearly hating to destroy everything, but he really bowed his head and took a sip of the sweet milk. After finishing his drink, he stared at her blankly, "What's your name?"

Malik Al-Mansoori swaggered towards us. He always referred to himself as the prodigal son because he was wayward and reckless in every way you could ever think of. Malik was just a few inches shorter than Jackson, with olive skin, curly dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped toffee brown eyes. Despite his recklessness, Malik was an information broker. He possessed a wealth of knowledge and insight.