Mori And Honey Novels & Stories

Christian had changed the endearing word to honey purposely so that her mother can assume they are close. "Okay." She opened the Brown colored tiffin which was insulated from inside and because of it the porridge was still very much warm. The smell was delicious. She had loved her mother's handmade porridge since childhood. Milly Brown was an expert in making nutritious dieting food. There was magic in her hands. "Oh. Okay. Are you religious?" "A little." "Why do you love her?"

He shivered visibly and pulled the blanket higher around his chest. “You want to know the worst part?” he whispered. “I loved you. Even while I was killing you, I loved you. I called you honey because that’s what you were to me. My honey. My everything. And I destroyed it. I destroyed us.” Tears slipped down his wrinkled cheeks. He did not wipe them away. He just let them fall, his eyes fixed on the space where I stood.

“If it’s related to your lycan, yes.” I took another sip of the tea. It was then I noticed that the sweet scent in the air came from the tea. “What kind of sweetener did you use for this?” His eyes brightened. Like someone had turn on a lightbulb hidden behind them. His back straightened and a smile crawled into his face. He looked ecstatic. Weird. Especially over a cup of tea. “It’s royal honey made from wild bees,” he replied. “Do you like it?” I took another sip. “It’s too sweet.”

Honey was fighting with the wolves, if they would have him. His father gave a low grunt, closing the conversation. Immediately following the alpha's non-verbal queue, Mandy and Sonora entered the room with apple pie and plates. His mate seemed more relaxed; they ate dessert with the men mostly quiet while Mandy and his mother carried on a conversation about gardens and planting. Honey had no idea Mandy knew how to do either, so it was nice to learn a few additional tidbits about his mate.

My standard vanilla honey aroma started to bleed through the cracks, sweet and heavy, filling the small space. But it was not pure honey anymore. Deep within the sweet scent, a radical, primitive shift was happening. A foreign note had entered the air, something rich, milky, and deeply grounded, like fresh earth after a heavy rain. It was an ancient biological signal, a scent that did not belong to a lone Omega athlete. Orion froze.

It wraps around my wrist, a golden bracelet of liquid sugar. I bring my wrist to my mouth. I lick it. The taste explodes in my brain. But it’s not just sweet. It’s data. Glucose. Fructose. Water content: 17%. Floral source: Clover. I see the molecular structure of the sugar dissolving on my tongue. It is a symphony of chemistry. "Taste it," I say to Alex. He leans in. He licks the honey from my skin. His tongue is rough, warm, biological.

She was aided by the revelation that locally grown honey was being touted as an allergen-resistance builder and for its many healing properties—on and on the good luck went, it seemed. When she mourned her own husband’s death (miserable, unreliable S.O.B. that he was), the bees had mourned along with her. She had draped all the wooden hives with black crepe for veils, lifting these only after Good-Time Larry’s burial to share sweets with them, and other foods brought to the funeral feast. Such were the ways of rural folk.

It was morbid but a harmless thought never hurt anyone. “I’ll pass but thanks.” Melissa winced when the words peeled from her in nervous laughter. They walked around the tables of knitted mittens and scarfs, one table was filled with pumpkin-spiced honey and many more were being set up. Lola remembered the first time she’d tried the honey when Melissa mixed it in a cup of tea with some chestnut biscuits on the side. Many of the families had been setting up tables for the Harvest Moon festival for generations and everyone knew exactly what to expect.

After tossing it on, he walked back to the bed carrying a silver plate piled high with roasted meats, fresh berries, and thick, dark bread slathered in honey. He sat on the edge of the mattress, offering a piece of the honeyed bread to my lips. “Eat.” I wanted to tell him I could feed myself, but the sweet, rich scent of the honey made my stomach violently rumble. I was actually truly famished. Defeated, I leaned forward and took a bite. It was heavenly. The contrast of the sweet honey against the rustic, dense bread was exactly what my exhausted body needed. Varul watched me chew, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray drop of honey from the corner of my mouth. Instead of wiping it on a na