Muse X Muse Novels & Stories

He could breathe fire and also breath ice. Lastly was a pure white dragon, the smallest of the three. The young dragon did not land on the ground before transforming and launching herself at one of the twins. Mist was hyperactive, being the last born of prince Xander/Malachai, she was the last of the three musketeers. Ah yes, the Musketeers. A werewolf princess, a dragon princess and a royal nagini. Emerson, Mist and Mya were destructive when put together. Mist was the youngest of the three, Emerson being fourteen, Mya thirteen and Mist, twelve.

Sliding into the backseat of an Uber, I clutch my bag to my chest like a shield. I have him— whatever's in here is something he doesn't want anybody to see. But when I unlock my phone, the screen lights up with a push notification that drains every drop of blood from my face. New Music Video: "Muse" - Watch Now. My mouth goes dry. The bastard couldn't have. It's been what? Twenty— Thirty minutes? With a trembling thumb, I tap the link. The video opens on a gritty, unfamiliar set. I let out a hollow laugh.

Ambrose moved his hips, going in the same rhythm as Matthew. "Fuck, I'm going to cum," Matthew groaned against his lips. "Me, too," Ambrose said breathlessly. "Oh, fuck," Matthew moaned out loud as he came in his underwear. "Ah fuck, Matt!" Ambrose screamed as he orgasmed. Matthew wrapped his arms around Ambrose's waist as he slumped against him. This is the first time the two ever did something sexual with each other. Ambrose just laid there, catching his breath with his eyes closed.

I mutter, giving in as I walk to the other side of the car and slide into the passenger seat. “Oh, and can I just say, you look gorgeous,” she says, and I scoff. I chose to wear a maroon bandage midi dress today because I woke up feeling like it, and I do want to impress the art curator. I know I can’t do that in jeans and a t-shirt. “Thank you.” “Where are you headed?” she asks, glancing over at me. “The National Museum. I have an appointment,” I tell her, leaning back in the seat.

A door at the far end of the hall stood slightly ajar. I was about to keep walking when something caught my eye—paint. Soft strokes of color near the edge of the frame. I paused, glanced around. No footsteps. No voices. Just silence and shadows. I pushed the door open just enough to peer inside. And froze. The room was bathed in natural light, dust motes dancing through it. Easels stood at angles, some with canvases half-covered, others fully exposed. Portraits. All of the men. Each painted with such intensity it made my chest tighten. Their eyes told stories—grief, yearning, quiet vulnerability. And in all of them, there was something familiar. Not their faces, but their emotions.

I mumbled to myself upon remembering one almost-forgotten detail. I dug a hand into my pocket once again and fished out a rose, made from an intricately folded piece of black paper. It was our guild’s signature to leave black paper roses after corpses that we assassinate. I’ve always found the practice insignificant, but I guess the higher-ups wanted to take credit in all those kills so bad. “What a waste,” I stared at the second arrow I shot, pinning the rose into the wooden door of his carriage. But finally, my work was done.