Nathaniel Flint Mga Nobela at Kwento

“Careful, Brooks. There is the side of making complaints, and there is the side of instigating something. Right now, it oddly sounds like you’re calling for treason. I hope I am wrong nevertheless.” “That’s exactly what I’m calling for,” Nathaniel says without breaking stride, leaning even further forward now, his eyes glittering. “Reid Flanagan/Caddel founded it, nothing more, he can’t proceed without us, it’s not a family business. The rest of his leadership is just smokes and mirrors. This empire can be rebuilt, stronger and even much better than it is right now, without him standing in the way, being a lover boy.”

I was so selfish. I couldn’t fully commit to Nathaniel because I couldn’t let go of my dead husband. I couldn’t let go of my dead husband because of the stone. And I couldn’t break the stone because I didn’t want to lose my dead husband for good. I was all kinds of screwed up.

“If this is dialogue—then speak.” The Reverent pauses. The silence stretches—heavy, deliberate. Coexistence requires witnesses, it answers at last. Not rulers. Not subjects. Understanding dawns with brutal clarity. “You don’t want control,” I whisper. “You want acknowledgment.” I want balance restored without erasure. The Crown howls in denial. I clutch my chest, pain flaring. “Then help me fix what it broke.” Another pause. Then— I will anchor the fracture. Temporarily. Blake stiffens. “At what cost?”

The way Archibald slots Isabella into his side doesn’t go unnoticed, not by a long shot, but it’s also the only thing that remotely helps quiet down a little of the internal screaming to keep it from becoming external screaming. The man says something, probably an introduction, but all Isabella hears is the word ‘date’ to know that she’s screwed. Because at the end of the day, Nathaniel is a slimeball who’s hated Isabella since he was an intern and she was eight, and who had loved nothing more than standing in the doorway of his office the day she’d been kicked out by her father, just watching. He’s a stuffed-up garbage person with too high an opinion of himself, but that’s never stopped him

“Take the flowers away. Go pot them somewhere else.” The two girls bowed and hurriedly left. Nathaniel tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table, deep in thought. Did she not like flowers? Or was it the type of flowers? He had ordered the florist to prepare some of the best scents. Zak prowled restlessly in his mind. “Mate! Mate! Must see her! Must have her!” Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose, dragging out a long hiss. He already had so much on his plate, and his wolf wasn’t helping.

The baby kicks, soft and insistent, as if she knows. When I return to the living room, Nathaniel is standing by the window, looking out at the city. He turns when I enter. His face is raw, unguarded. He says he is sorry. Not for the first time. But he means it. He says he has been seeing a therapist, the one his grandmother recommended. He has been telling the truth, all of it, about the years he was blind, about the way he let his mother and Celeste control him, about the fear that kept him silent.

He spoke, his voice low and rough. Nathaniel was a silent human. He didn't like to talk. He was one of the people whose silence was comforting yet a bit scary. Even at the age of twenty-five, his aura was frightening to those who were strangers to him. The black ink on both of his muscular arms gave him a bad boyish look, specially with the nose piercing he had. Humming, I urged him to go on, as I wiped the blood off his chest. “Our boxer had almost killed their boss, Deus. They came to get revenge. They’ll probably look for them everywhere.” He sighed, sweat dripping from his forehead.

“Nathaniel, your father… he was the original idea behind Noir Elixir. He was fashion itself. His mother taught him everything.” I blinked. What? No one had ever told me that before. Not once. Beside me, Ivy tensed, but said nothing. I couldn’t even glance at her. My eyes were glued to Patrick as he spoke. My fingers tightened around the untouched glass in front of me. This wasn’t the kind of story you listened to with a drink. This was the kind of story that needed your full attention. "Your father and Richard were best friends," Patrick continued. "After they finished high school, Richard went on to college. Nathaniel didn’t. He stayed back because of his family problems. He had to work wit

Then… was it Nathaniel? I bit my lip, debating whether to check. Curiosity won. Slipping off my heels to avoid making noise, I tiptoed up the stairs, my heart hammering with excitement. I stopped in front of Nathaniel’s door, pressing my ear against it. Silence. Slowly, I pushed it open just a crack. There he was. Nathaniel James, the mighty business tycoon, reduced to a pathetic, broken man. He sat on the edge of the bed, a bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand, the other gripping one of those photos—our masterpiece.

“And I know that these are things that I shouldn’t care about. But somehow, I still do. She always finds a way to make me feel small. And she does that by just using words. At times, I can ignore them, but there are times when it is hard to do so. I am guessing today just falls with the fact of being hard.” Nolan didn’t move for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, “You’re not small, Natalia. You never were. You might not see it, but I do. There are many others who look up at you, and when I say that I know they wouldn’t if this was someone else, I am not even complimenting you when I say that I know my pack. They do not give in to anyone, and they do not look twice to someone that they don’t r