Mistletoe Books Novels & Stories

Her Chosen Mate (Book 3) *** 1. Can't Help Falling in Love (Book 1) 2. Purchased By The Mafia (Book 2) 3. Her Mysterious Lover (Book 3) 4. My Girlfriend is Mafia Queen (Book 4) 5. Loving A Mafia (Book 5)- Upcoming **** 1. Chosen By An Alpha (Stand-Alone) No One POV . A loud wailing could be heard from a child who was crying because of the hunger, but her father, on the other side, was busy in fucking someone else. Tears came out from a four-month-old infant due to suffocation and hunger.

There where now books with titles such as The Witch Within You, Herbs and Pentagrams, Spells and the Sabbaths, True Magic in the World. Maddie had never noticed that there were so many books on that subject. She was shocked when Omem suddenly stood in front of her. ‘Are you coming, child? Lunch is ready.’ Maddie nodded and left the library.

I change into a pair of leather pants and a bra strapping my sword to my waist. While I'm changing, Flavius wanders around the room, lightly brushing his fingers across the many bookshelves I have carved out of the mountain wall. "When I thought of your room, I never thought of so many books. I thought it would be full of weapons and armor," he says jokingly. "I love to read, honestly," I respond. "I’m surprised, though; you even have books written in other languages," he remarks. "There is a lot of great literature that came from the elves and the fae. As a dragon, I am fluent in all languages. I only have to hear the language once, and I can speak it," I tell him nonchalantly.

’ I nodded to myself, running my fingers across the spines of books, some cracked and worn, others bound in strange leathers that smelled faintly of ash and herbs. The air thrummed, like the heartbeat of something alive, waiting... My eyes scanned every title until a corner shelf drew my attention. Hidden behind piles of dust and forgotten tomes were a few books. I went there, well, my curiosity pulled me there. As soon as I touched it, dust flew all over. I coughed, covering my face. Then again, I went forward. They're books related to kingdoms. Some plants, but then, at the end row of the shelf, I saw a book. It's leather cracked, its cover almost entirely obscured.

A shelf in the kitchen held small jars of spices, but rather than the usual garlic, pepper, or chili powder, the jars were labeled with things like Horehound, Solomon's Seal, and Myrrh. Another thing that caught our attention was the bookshelf in the living room. Most of the titles appeared to be hand-bound in leather. The names on the spines sent a chill straight through me. Herbs and Spells, Magical Uses for Mammals and Reptiles, and The Book of Shadows. The biggest book sat on a small table beside the shelf. Leo opened it and was flipping through a few pages when I leaned over his shoulder to take a look. All I found on the pages was a strange, unreadable script and some obscure hand-draw

Like I was shopping for bedtime stories instead of trying to decide whether my life had cracked open into impossibility. “Thank you,” I murmured. The folklore section was tucked into a quiet corner near a window that looked out toward the forest. Of course it did. The books there were a strange little army: weathered hardcovers, thin local history pamphlets, glossy paperbacks with titles involving moons and curses and women who looked poorly dressed for weather. I started with the serious looking ones. Northern Appalachian Folk Beliefs, Predator Myths of the American East, Silver, Salt, and Blood: Ritual Materials in Regional Lore. I pulled them down one by one, making a stack against my che

Even Theo, walking me to lunch, his hand brushing mine, couldn’t cut through the noise. Because beneath it all, that message pulsed in my pocket like a second heartbeat: Meet me tonight. By the time the sun dipped low, staining the sky orange and bruised purple, my decision hadn’t been made—yet somehow, my feet carried me anyway. --- Theo noticed first. We were in the library, books spread between us, his leg pressed warm against mine beneath the table. He looked up from his notes, eyes narrowing. “You’re restless.” I froze, my fingers tapping the edge of a page. “Just tired.”

If my choice also chose me, we’d share a kiss at midnight under that mistletoe and remove our masks. That was the tradition in Mistletoe Mountain. I thought it just came from the town founders’ strong idealism that nobody should be alone on Christmas and Christmas was a time to find and share love, to kindle relationships, and to let magic happen. But I wasn’t sure that was really the case, but it made sense to me. So, every Saturday after Thanksgiving for the last two hundred-odd years, we kicked off Christmas with the Santa Claus Ball, complete with games, dancing, plays, carriage rides, and the Mistletoe Mystery.

But nothing seemed to match the symbol on my door. Frustrated, I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. There had to be something here, some clue that I was missing. I glanced at the stack of books beside me, my eyes landing on one that looked older and more worn than the others. Its leather cover was cracked and faded, the title barely legible: *The Mysteries of Silverwood.* I pulled the book closer and opened it carefully. The pages were brittle, the text handwritten in an elegant script. As I flipped through the pages, a passage caught my eye:

I can’t explain it, but I don’t have to, either, if I don’t bring it up, and I’m not one to ever start conversations. I sniff the paperback—old, musty paper, glue, and Justus—and set it on the pallet. The next book in the pile, Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, has a picture of two men chopping down a tree on the cover. It smells the same. All the books are dog-eared paperbacks with yellowed pages—Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Critique of Practical Reason by Immanuel Kant, several each by Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemison, and a massive hardback of Plato’s collected works. The Plato is the only one that looks like it hasn’t been read a hundre