Milo James Thatch Novels & Stories

James went forward with confidence, but unexpectedly, Thyme Sylis, who was said to have no achievements whatsoever, put up quite a fight. In fact, in the field of shooting, James was overwhelmed with shots that were right on target. In addition, when they clashed physically, Thyme almost managed to punch James in the stomach. Had James not dodged quickly, he would have gotten a point deduction for that punch. “You're pretty strong too, young man,” the thirty-two-year-old Thyme said. The young man was panting after Mary Kesley had given them a break. James grinned, “If I wasn't strong, how could I have been selected as a candidate for war general, Senior?”

she stops short and looks at Milo, “Wait. That vault requires biometrics from multiple people to get in. How did you do it?” Milo holds his finger to his mouth like he’s keeping a secret and whispers, “Black ops”. James looks at the contents in his hands in awe. We watch him back out of the room, “I gotta go. I know just the person to help me with these. We’ve got work to do. I’ll keep you posted!” “Arrogant Beta you got there, Bronx,” Tessa murmurs, smirking at Milo, who is pretending to swing a baseball bat and pointing to his imaginary home run.

River shakes his head, now shaken out of his reverie. He regards Milo, noticing him as a man of stature, from the way he dresses and the charming smile on his face. Slicked back, his dark brown hair shines in the light that bounces off his tanned complexion. It gives the man reason to be charming, and socially outgoing. "I've seen you somewhere before, but I wonder if it was on the tele or in person," Milo's enchanting British accent rings in the air as he extends a hand. "I'm Milo. Owner of Chariottē Casinos."

So at least her expressions were not betraying her like Arthur did! “So, what is the petition?” Mila asked the man. “We always told it to the minister, and he passed on the message to the Alpha,” the man informed. “Well, I don’t have a minister,” Mila shrugged. “What is your name?” “James Meisner,” the man replied with a bow. “And your post?” Mila continued. “I was a commander,” James replied, confirming Mila’s suspicions about his post. “So, you held a position of power,” Mila added.

Adrian Milo stood there, my father’s old assistant, holding a carton of wine bottles at his feet. The realization hit me. I had completely forgotten I had instructed him to stock the lake house. But even as relief started to creep in, something else made me pause. Milo was uneasy. Too uneasy for something as simple as a delivery. "Master," he said, bowing his head in deference, recognizing not just my power, but who I was — his Sire, his Lord.

Gareth Laskey, Milo’s father. Only he didn’t look like a father. Not his, anyway. His eyes were cold and unfamiliar. His jaw hard, set in permanent disapproval. Milo had spent years studying his own reflection, searching for some trace of the man who’d walked away. There was nothing. He looked like his mother. Every inch. And now that face was right in front of him, in Crestwick. The faint scrape of blades echoed across the empty rink, laughter long gone, leaving only the sting of cold air seeping through Milo’s jacket. His throat felt tight, the smell of ice sharp in his lungs.

​I looked down. ​Milo, who had been crying for the last hour, was suddenly wide awake. He had wiggled his arms out of his yellow duck fleece. With zero survival instincts and absolute baby fearlessness, Milo reached his tiny, chubby hand across the center console. ​His little fingers clamped firmly into Kaelen Thorne’s thick, dark beard. ​"Da!" Milo squealed happily, giving the facial hair a sharp, aggressive yank.

They announced that hundreds of human citizens were taking to the streets of the southern district. Not to support Gideon. To surround the building and demand that he release the teenagers. The first call I received from one of the homes disarmed me more than any attack report. “Mrs. Dubois, this is Milo.” I recognized his voice immediately. Milo had arrived at Bridges of Life when he was nine, after his parents died in one of the hunters’ final offensives. Now he was twenty-seven and ran a mixed home on the coast. “I’m listening.” “Three kids who were with the Heirs asked for shelter. One took part in vandalism against a vampire family. Another distributed propaganda. The third doesn’t want

‘I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around. ‘I just want both you and Aunt Vero to be happy,’ Milo said sincerely. ‘We will. And I want you to be happy too.’ She glanced at the game screen. ‘What’s this game, and how did you rake in all this cash?’ Milo shrugged, a sly smile on his face. ‘It’s Warrior Empires. I’m a natural at it.’ Then he added, ‘It’s developed by a company owned by Wilde Enterprises.’ Alessia’s eyes widened.

Through a half-broken window, I saw them — Jace Malone, their president, and Milo standing face-to-face. “Payment’s been made,” Jace said, tossing Milo a stack of bills. “Marcus says you did good.” My stomach turned. Milo pocketed the cash like it was nothing. “Tell Marcus I want double next time. Getting info from Ryder’s circle isn’t easy. He’s suspicious as hell.” Jace grinned. “And what about the girl? Tessa?” Milo shrugged. “He’s obsessed with her. That’s his weakness. Marcus knows it.” I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles cracked.