Native American Romance Fiction Mga Nobela at Kwento

My legs won’t support me. “Please, Roman,” India scoffs. “You think a little rock wall stops me? I have the King’s seal. This forest bows to me.” She walks closer, her gaze sliding over Leera with disgust. “Look at her. A half-blood stray. And you threw away everything for this?” “I threw away nothing,” I snap. “I found my mate.” “Mate,” India laughs, a harsh, brittle sound. “You keep using that word like it matters. Like it erases duty. Like it erases history.”

She poured herself another glass of cheap red, already on her third, and dropped onto the couch in her pencil skirt and blouse, buttons half undone. The city lights through the rain-streaked windows. Her laptop was still open on the coffee table, case files glowing like accusatory little rectangles. She should sleep. Instead she reached for the dusty old book she’d bought on a drunken whim two years ago at that weird occult shop downtown. *Daemonologie for the Modern Woman.* Stupid. But tonight it felt like the right kind of stupid. She flipped it open, scanned a page at random, and slurred the words under her breath. Latin? Probably, didn’t matter.

"The Native American tribes believe that they were blessed with the ability to shift from man to wolf and back to protect their lands and people. They have a lot of legends and I'm beginning to think they may be onto something considering my sister has their legendary fire wolf residing within her." I nodded my head slowly while soaking in his words, "What was your original running theory of it?" "You mean of our creation?" He arched a brow in question. "Yeah." "I never thought about it. Maybe we were created since the beginning by the Moon Goddess or maybe we were humans once until we were cursed by her and the only way to make life bearable is to have a mate or you'll feel lost for the res

If I could meet him again, I will gladly let him rocked his hips against mine. It wasn't my first wild night, frankly, it was one of the many nights I spent going to the club. But it was the first time ever I had sex with a stranger in a club's restroom. I definitely would feel ashamed if I ever get to meet him again, but I wouldn't be ashamed if I get to meet him at the club again. But anywhere else would be a complete disaster, he wouldn't know I was totally heartbroken that night. I don't regret the sex, if I have another chance I would do it over a million more times.

“Winona, your kind of people are not trustworthy at all. You b*tch, you’re worse than a wh*re. I’m your man, after all!” After being insulted by Tommy with various swear words, Winona got angry. “Tommy, I despised you since back then. You took advantage of me being pregnant to rape me every night as I was unable to run away. I haven’t even sued you! Are you even a man?!” Both of them were at each other’s throats, and Tommy was furious too. Back then, Winona was gorgeous while Tommy was just a gangster. He could own a place at Hoover Alley all because his cousin, Sophia, was Nightingale.

The not-an-ordinary-wolf part, I believed, but saying she wasn't like us, was wrong. The Shaman claimed she was closer to the goddess, but we knew that only Spirit Wolves were that way, and Sam did not have metallic coloured fur to classify her as a Spirit Wolf. Was she a crossbreed? The shaman said spirit wolves don't crossbreed, so it left us with a huge dilemma.

“Deadly snakes, poisonous plants, water that’s not safe to drink, raging rivers, and worst of all, native rogues.” When he says those last two words, Ginny’s forehead crinkles, and she turns to look at him. “Native rogues?” she repeats in her thick accent. “I don’t know how to say it.” “Wolves that have lived in these parts for thousands of years,” Sanders tells her. “They still think those lands out west are theirs, even though the humans are tellin’ ‘em otherwise.”

The lodge doors burst open, letting out a wave of warmth, laughter—and her. Sebastian froze. She walked out like she owned the snow beneath her boots. Long dark hair spilled from a wool hat, her coat cinched at the waist, confidence in every step. She was beautiful in a way that felt intentional. Dangerous. Her eyes scanned the area sharply, calculating exits. Sebastian’s hand twitched toward a gun that wasn’t there. Because he knew her. Nyra Valen. Mafia queen. Strategist. His biggest rival. And apparently… a Christmas tourist.

Not the shy author hiding behind polite smiles. This India burned. She appeared in my dream with her hair spilling wild around her shoulders, eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed like she’d been running toward me all her life. “Roman,” she whispered, voice husky, trembling, but not with fear. With hunger. I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. My hands caught her waist, yanking her against me, her body fitting like it was made for mine. She gasped, but instead of retreating, her fingers speared into my hair, tugging, demanding more.

It was the most beautiful place I’d seen in my life. “I didn’t know you were … well…” I said to Brandon. “Oh, you can say Native American. It’s not racist or anything,” Brandon said. “Are you?” “A Native? My dad’s from the tribe. My mom isn’t. They were fated mates. Before she became a part of our tribe, she was part of the Howls. Back in those days, the Howls were quite amicable. At the wedding ceremony, all the Howls came and celebrated with us like our brothers,” he said. “Not so much anymore. There’s hardly any accord between the packs nowadays.”