My Booktok Journal Novels & Stories

I wrote down the explanation she gave. “Soft inside. Crunchy outside.” I wrote. I looked at the pages. I remembered what Cassian told me. He said the book that brought her to this time was the Ledger of Satiety. My heart skipped a beat. That was the perfect name for my journal. I had been looking for a title. I took the quill. I wrote the words in bold letters on the cover. The Ledger of Satiety. Just after I finished writing. A sharp knock interrupted me. I did not like being disturbed in this room.

I pulled out the latest BookTok darling from my backpack—the one with the cover everyone was blushing over—and flipped to where I’d left off. The girl in the book was officially snowed in at a remote cabin with her hot, brooding not-uncle and his even hotter sons. It was chaotic, messy, probably deeply inappropriate—and I was all in. I’d just hit the chapter with the spicy scene. You know the one. A fireplace. A blizzard. Tension so thick it needed a crowbar. I took a long sip of my lavender drink and sank deeper into the fantasy. This? This was exactly what I needed.

## Author's Note Hello everyone, I am incredibly grateful that you have taken the time to delve into my book “Caged by Him.” Your time and attention are invaluable, and I want to express my heartfelt thanks for allowing my story to be a part of your day. Writing this book has been a journey filled with passion, creativity, and a few challenges along the way, and I’m thrilled to share it with you.

The stories she had written were not just words on paper; they were a testament to the unbreakable bond she shared with Theo, a bond forged in the magic of storytelling and nurtured by love, imagination, and the enduring beauty of the human heart. With the final words penned in her journal, Mama Hazel closed the leather-bound book and cradled it gently in her hands. The weight of the journal was more than just paper and ink; it held within it the essence of her most treasured moments with Theo, a collection of stories that bound them together in a tapestry of love and imagination.

If he loves me like he claims he does then he is going to do the right thing. “That can’t be the end.” I say out loud as I flip the page but there is nothing else written in this part of the journal. I look for the next one but there is no continuation, all the other books are a continuation of her life after everything had gone past. There is a gap, a gap where she doesn’t document anything. She indicates it when she continues writing another journal. It has been a while since I wrote one of these because I haven’t been able to bring myself to write anymore.

Books that offered shelter to those still lost in the storm. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sweet air of that late afternoon, feeling the warmth of Luka, the solidity of Elias, and the heartbeat of Zion against her back. She thought of the seventeen-year-old girl who had walked into that bookstore on a rainy afternoon, seeking refuge in someone else’s pages because she still didn’t know that one day she would have her own to offer. She thought of the broken woman she had been, of the painful but necessary crossing, of the moments when she had almost given up.

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Her aunt gives her a small smile and nods, Celine finds the bookmark and opens to the page. The woven bookmark has a faded blue tassel and was made of woven threads depicting wolves running in a forest, at the bottom of the bookmark was an old wolf’s tooth with a hole drilled through to be able to tie it onto the bookmark. She puts it to one side to look at the page it had been marking. It looked much like many of the others she had seen flipping through. But its words had her feeling like her world was slipping through her fingers and she was unable to do anything to stop it.

A blast of cold air rushed up from below, smelling like wet stone, old blood, and something rotten beneath snow. The journal slid across the floor toward the opening. “No!” I lunged for it. Damien caught me tighter. “Leave it.” “No.” “That thing wants you closer.” “The book has been more honest than half the people in this town.” “It is not a person.” “Neither are half the people in this town.” The journal teetered on the edge. Pages fluttering. Glowing. Waiting. Then one page ripped free and flew upward on a burst of silver wind.

Not with the trembling in her tone when she said it. My chest tightened, and I reached for the only thing that had kept me sane these past weeks… my journal. The leather cover was worn soft, the edges fraying, the pages crowded with ink that felt like blood drained from me. I opened to a fresh page, the tip of the pen hovering over the page. I stopped writing halfway, staring at the list, and then added: I don’t know if I’m writing about Adam or myself anymore. And then, I just stared at the truth written in black and staring at me.