Nash Hawthorne Fanart Novels & Stories

I informed her and hesitantly, she nodded and I headed toward Hawthorne's room. The door to his room was barely closed and I could vaguely see inside the room. I waited, trying to listen as I wanted to know if he was in. I gave the door a light push and gulped, as I could see Hawthorne, half naked, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Luckily, he had his back turned to me and I slipped away from the door. My breathing was ragged as I began to have dirty images, clouding my mind. I refused the temptation, but it was persistent. My will slowly began to waver. I decided to steal another glance and moving toward the door again, I peeped.

Patience replied with a tight smile. “Sure,” Aislen replied and took a sip of orange juice. “Why was I there? Heath and I bumped into Mr Graynor at the Farmer’s Market, and he reminded me that the school was in possession of an art book from when I was a student there. He told me that they were changing the display and that I should get my book back. It has a portrait of Rhett that I painted when we were teenagers, and I wanted that back, so I went to get it,” she saw Rhett blush, the colour flushing through the tattoos revealed by the v neck of his top before creeping up his neck and face.

“Come inside, little girl. Daddy’s been thinking about you all day.” Nate’s mansion was something else — huge, beautiful, and strangely lonely in that rich way, like it was waiting for someone to actually live in it. Bookshelves lined entire walls, packed tight with novels, dark romances I knew he wrote, and old classics that probably cost more than my tuition. Sculptures stood in corners, smooth marble bodies twisted in elegant poses, and paintings hung everywhere, mixing clean minimal lines with deep traditional strokes. It felt cozy as hell, like a high-end home floating in space — warm lights, soft textures, the kind of place that made you want to stay forever. My eyes landed on an unfin

Halsey takes a deep breath and chants to herself. Be strong and clear, she tells herself. Just be honest. She enters his room and nervously glances around. Nathan’s room is…wild! His walls are painted with abstract graffiti of people’s figures in colors of red, yellow and blue. There isn’t a single white space in the walls and everything in his room matches the strange combination of colors. She’s fascinated by one art where it seems to be the artwork of two people who are holding each other while another person is towering over them as if like a mighty monster. Everywhere she sees, the same theme is followed.

I sprang from my bed, adrenaline pumping as I prepared to confront the intruder. My stance quickly relaxed, however, and a frown crossed my face when I saw who it was—Hayes Hawthorne, standing in my room shirtless. My breath caught in my throat. Holy. Fucking. Hell. Every inch of his body was sculpted like a Greek god, with sharp lines and rigid definition. A large tattoo sprawled across his upper chest and onto his left shoulder, dark and bold, forming a series of interconnected shapes that were both intricate and slightly thorny.

I didn’t know, and I couldn’t find a way to finish that sentence that wouldn’t sound pathetic, maudlin, and weak. Esther sighed. “You’re off the clock, then,” she said, with a hint of kindness in her tone. I blinked. Would wonders never cease? “If you think the situation’s resolved to an extent that it won’t cause any problems for Fenwick, then what you do from here on out is up to you, and I won’t ask. I’m going to text you a phone number for Nate Hawthorne. You know, the warlock who mated Ian Armitage.” I did know, and I raised my eyebrows a bit at that. I knew Ian from several bar fights and a few more-or-less amusing insult-slinging sessions, and I knew his brother Matthew as the Armitag

He wouldn't allow her drinking or eating anyone's leftovers, except his. ........ "What happened? You forgot something?" Hannah questioned as he got back in the car. Hannah was already there, seated in the passenger seat. "Yeah, I forgot something," Nate answered as he closed the door. "See," Hannah showed him her painting. It was a picture of two girls hanging out in a room. "I made it. This is me and she is Sera," she pointed out. "It's very beautiful. You are becoming a pro," Nate cheered his little sister. Hannah grinned proudly.

Ryan suggests, tacking on a hasty, “no offense, Your Majesty.” “He doesn’t get to take offense in here,” I remind Ryan. “Remember, this is informal.” “Well, who has better handwriting?” Nathan demands, annoyed. He sits in the chair next to mine. I just shrug. “Not me, that’s for sure.” Hannah gets up, erases the nightmare scribbles, and sets about making three columns. She titles them, “werewolves,” “thralls,” and “unknown.” “She was born for this,” I whisper to Nathan.

The lines of muscle shifted with each breath, and Caroline’s stomach knotted against her will. The walls—Jonathan’s walls—had been desecrated. Sketches pinned up in chaotic rows: rough pencil drawings, violent and jagged, some twisted into shadows of fists, broken bodies, and bleeding faces. Others—her throat went dry—were erotic. Women half-formed, mouths parted, spines arched, lines drawn with such intensity that they throbbed with unspoken hunger. She tore her gaze away, a flush crawling up her throat. Nathaniel turned, unashamed. His eyes flicked over her robe, then met hers with unsettling calm. “You’re up late.”

A soft cough behind me makes me whirl around, paintbrush still in hand. I’m surprised to find Nora, the nanny, standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a teapot and plate of cookies. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in my painting, and for reasons I can’t quite explain, I instinctively shuffle over a little to hide it behind my back. I don’t think it’s because I’m ashamed of the image—I think I don’t want anyone else to look upon the she-wolf.