Novel & Cerita Of A Muse

A flowing red dress framed my figure, and every careful stroke showed the artist's affection toward me. The artist was Anthony, and the title read, "My Only Muse". A hand-painted portrait carried a weight and romance that no confession could match. The entire social circle was in an uproar, shocked that Anthony, who had always been notoriously wild and arrogant, could fall so deeply for a woman. No one expected that after three years of living in the shadows, I would return, looking vibrant and more breathtaking than ever. Comment after comment calling us a perfect match flooded in, each one landing like a blow, leaving Caleb unable to stay composed.

For royal families to travel to these events is a tradition, Aunt Martha told me. "I am anxious for you to meet Maxon. My cousin is a wonderful man; we are all waiting for him to find his muse. He says he already found it, but it slipped through his fingers, but knowing him, it shouldn't take him long to find it," said Elena. "Muse?" I said, confused. "Ha, I forgot there were still some terms you didn't know, for werewolves. It's MATE for us; it's MUSA OR MUSE for women."

“Pretty smart.. pretty smarts . Always knew my boy was smart. So, they basically work on their own 24/7?” “Yeah yeah.” she smiled, AGAIN! “So, how’s this my business? And why did you guys bring me here?” Chad asked with one hand holding the bedsheets he wrapped around his waist. “…the Medusa were looking for a woman, Aisha. Because she’s basically the only one who has ever come in contact with 'the fisheye'. And they’re seriously looking for the Fisheye.” “…whoa whoa.. wait, who’s Fisheye?” Chad interrupted.

Being in love as an artist is so defeating, so deafening and so beautiful at the same time. My muse is in my head, in my bed, everywhere. In my clothes their scent stays and the walls of my house cave in with the echo of his voice. It's like a noose around the neck that's pulled tighter I write about him. Without even trying, everything I write is about him. Everything I imagine becomes with him, for him or he himself. He'd call me crazy if he read all of it but in my madness, only he resides. So, who really is crazy here? The one that writes or the one that makes?

Ella confusedly asked him. "I hired you to become my muse for my next masterpiece," he seriously said to her. "But I am not a model," Ella worriedly said to him. "You don't have to be a model to become my muse. Now, enough with the discussion and wear this, so we can get started," he said in a commanding tone.

“Ophelia, the way you balanced the jasmine with rainwater and musk—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Tell me: where did you find such inspiration?” Ophelia paused, for once unsure. She thought of her restless evenings and the strange, wonderful disruptions that had forced her outside her comfort zone. “Sometimes, inspiration finds you when you least expect it,” she replied softly. “You think you’re working alone, but then someone appears and pushes you further—shows you what you’re capable of.” Marcus studied her, an understanding growing in his eyes. “Everyone has a muse, or at least a motivation. Cherish it.” She nodded, her thoughts tangled with gratitude and longing. What was j

“All five of you are my muses.” They stared. Then they laughed. Then they cried. Then they kissed me. All at once. The exhibition would not have one muse. It would have five. And the canvases would be filled.

What we had done to them was a blatant act of treason. "Are you familiar with the muses?" Julian asked, catching me off guard. What a peculiar thing to ask someone. Especially someone from the more supernatural side of life. Obviously she knew of the muses. Nine crones who dished out necklaces left and right at the behest of the Goddess. Everyone and their babies knew who they were.

"Hold it, Aradaa! Don't let go yet!" Kaelor was a few feet away, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and the gray ash of the Queen. He looked like a man who had crawled out of a furnace. His gold eyes were fixed on the swirling silver mass in my hands. "I can't—it's burning!" The Muse-energy wasn't just light. It was pressure. It was the collective stolen breath of every girl Hecate had drained for three centuries. It wanted out. It wanted to be anywhere but inside my ribcage.

Sliding into the backseat of an Uber, I clutch my bag to my chest like a shield. I have him— whatever's in here is something he doesn't want anybody to see. But when I unlock my phone, the screen lights up with a push notification that drains every drop of blood from my face. New Music Video: "Muse" - Watch Now. My mouth goes dry. The bastard couldn't have. It's been what? Twenty— Thirty minutes? With a trembling thumb, I tap the link. The video opens on a gritty, unfamiliar set. I let out a hollow laugh.