My Sweet Tyrant Novels & Stories

It was stupid to ask since I already know the answer to my question, it was written all over his face, monsters have emotions when it comes to their family but this one was different, he should be given a horn to signify his black heart. He chuckled like a real devil and the study room felt so cold that I had to rub my palm together as I gazed at the terrifying face. "What do you think?" He curled his lips up. "Do tell me you came all the way here expecting me to crawl on my knees and apologize to you," He made an illustration with his hands and then burst into laughter. "Natasha, or should I call you Malinda Kristen, I am not that kind of person." He said icily and my inside snare in disgus

My heat rose like a train up my cheeks , my heart beat got loud , I bite my lip out trying to back away but he didn't let me . " My name is Aaron , everyone here calls me Dean" His rough voice reached me . I nodded as he steps back , He grabbed my bag and motioned me to walk , " So , am I suppose to call you Dean ?" I asked looking back and I saw his eyes trained on something .

Dear lovely readers, We’re nearing the final chapters of The Tyrant’s Baby. It’s been an incredible journey bringing this story to life, and I’m so grateful for your support, love, and patience along the way. Stay tuned as we uncover the last twist, turn, and heartfelt moments in Selene and Alaric’s story. Thank you for being part of this adventure! With love, Yña Banana 🌙

“It's not like there is still something I haven’t seen, touched, and kissed before.” She gave me a deadpanned look, one that made me want to pinch her cheek, ruffle her hair, and maybe kiss the expression away. I almost did so, but then she suddenly said with an austere tone, “Out.” “Alright,” I replied, raising my arms as an act of defeat. “Damn. So feisty. Couldn’t you ask a little more sweetly, sweetheart?” Willa smiled, all tight-lipped and dripping with feigned saccharine. “If you want someone sweet, then I am sorry. You will only be disappointed. I have no sweetness to offer you, Han.”

Or maybe… my eyes looked like his. He bent down slightly so we were at the same level. “I’m Victor.” His voice was low and deep, but not harsh. I didn’t answer. He studied me for a moment longer, then the corner of his lips lifted again. “From now on, you belong to me.” I didn’t like that sentence. “I don’t belong to anyone, Uncle.” I am not an object. I am not a painting. I am Nicholas. And I belong to Mom. I looked back at him with the same gaze I had learned from Mom whenever she was angry at the world.

She’s the sweet in the bitter. She’s the heart I never had.

Damian stared deeply at Enola, this time without a cynical smile. Enola got up from the sofa and walked gracefully towards Damian. Her gaze was sharp, but her smile was sweet. “And you like dangerous women, don’t you, Mr. Tyrant?” Enola arrived in front of Damian, and he pulled her waist closer until the distance between them disappeared. “Be careful, Enola. The fire you light could burn you.” Damian chuckled, but his eyes sharpened. Enola leaned her face forward as if to kiss Damian, but she quickly moved to Damian’s ear.

Greg knew all too well that Adrian might truly annihilate him, especially after all his provocations. “Adrian, just end this already. What’s there to hesitate about?” Tyron urged. As a daemon, he held no sympathy for enemies and never showed mercy. Adrian smirked slightly. “Oh, I intend to. But first, I want him to realize he’s never mattered to me and that he shouldn’t think so highly of himself. Maybe he’ll remember that in his next life.”

“I see that my little ship of audacious doctrine runs the risk of running aground in this sudden storm. I understand that for French ears, even your so benevolent ones, it is hard to hear the statement that talking is a utopian exercise. But what am I to do if such is undeniably the truth?” 3 About talking and keeping silent Once the storm my last remarks had elicited subsided, I continued: “I well understand your indignation. The statement that talking is an illusory activity and a utopian action has all the air of a paradox, and a paradox is always irritating. It is especially so for the French. Perhaps the course of this conversation takes us to a point where we need to clarify why the Fr

“But you and him, it would be different. Tyrith always did what you asked him. I bet he would come if you asked him. No, if you call him right now and say ‘Tyrith, I need you’, he would be here faster than the speed of light. If they locked the two of you in a room, Tyrith would let you dominate him. But what I can’t stop trying to imagine is how he looks in bed. Do those round eyes glow with his arousal? Does his smooth whisky colored skin get red? Do his cheeks get flush? Those lips. Perfect lips. They always were red. Do they get crimson when he’s kissed? What do his pheromones smell like when he’s turned on? Does he let it loose or does he conserve it? What…” I tried not to hear what els