MxM Novels & Stories

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“What’s up?” XXX

“Be good. I’ll be right back.” XXX

"You're positive? Because she is also half fae and you said you were almost certain the mother was a mortal." Vimpir questions. "There is one more way to be 100%. If she has a rain drop shaped birth mark right behind her left shoulder." Jameson replies. "May I?" Vimpir asks coming over to me. I give him a small nod before he walks behind me and easily slides my hair away from my shoulder. "Well, I'll be damned." he states.

Group hug it is. Finally !

I inquired with a raised eyebrow. He took a sip, "That I'm losing my grip, my pack is an easy hunt, and I've gone mad and should be put out of power." "Wow. Those are some nasty rumors going on." I shook my head, "But what's with you going mad? That's a bit strange." "I believe Cordelia Blackwell, Black Witch, Council sore thorn, and my arch enemy, is my destined mate and Luna sent to me from the Moon Goddess herself after years of searching and looking." An amused smile adorned his face, "That's enough to call me crazy."

even though it wasn't remotely funny. Ryan smirked, tracing a light finger over my cheek, traveling downward and disappearing into my mouth. “I beg your pardon. High school girls are fun and easy to screw, but they aren't the real deal. They're so full of drama. They're only interested in hot boys, trending parties, and make-up kits. They make you seem like their toy, carrying their bags and tagging along to the mall with them for shopping. No. There's nothing interesting about high school girls. You on the other hand...”

“Liar.” He surged forward, sweeping my leg and pinning me to the mat. His weight pressed down—not crushing, but firm enough that I could feel his breath against my neck. “Yield,” he said quietly. The suppressant had started to fade. My body burned and my pulse raced. I could smell him, and worse, he could smell me. “I said yield, Hale.” I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes. “Get off.” Then it happened. The faintest crack in the mask. My scent slipped which felt sweet, warm, unmistakably Omega.

A gunshot split the night outside Velvet Mirage, the crack echoing over the bass that shook the club’s grimy floor. Inside, Noah Brant danced like a trapped spark, lean muscles flexing under neon slashes of blue and red. At twenty-four, he stood five-foot-ten, dark hair clinging to his brow, hazel eyes scanning the River North throng for stray bills. A leather harness hugged his frame, concealing a winged tattoo etched across his ribs is a jagged mark from foster care’s cruel years.

- C XOXO 📝 Caleb Draven