Novel & Cerita Off The Clock Book

I was halfway through another page when a soft knock came through the door. I looked up. “Come in.” The door opened, and Genevieve stepped inside. She looked toward me, then toward the clock on the wall before shaking her head. “It's late, you should be going home.” I glanced at the clock myself. She wasn't wrong. Still, I looked back at the files. “I will when I'm done with these files.”

The locker room after a championship win is its own specific universe. Noise that has texture to it, the particular layered sound of people who pushed past what they thought they had and found something on the other side of it. Rohan has somehow acquired a full bottle of sparkling water which he shakes and opens at Matty who retaliates with an entire water bottle and within ninety seconds, Coach is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who has decided to let this run for exactly two more minutes.

CLARA'S POV The 48-hour clock began its final countdown at midnight. By 3:00 AM. I sat at the master console in Ares’s obsidian office, wearing an immaculate black suit. The high, structured collar completely hid the heavy silver band around my neck. The air inside the locked study smelled of stale espresso and the cold, metallic ozone of hyper-threaded servers.

The digital clock on the penthouse microwave read 2:14 AM. Liam sat cross-legged on the edge of the leather sofa, wrapped tightly in the heavy velvet duvet Jaxson had given him the night before. The penthouse was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the central AC and the distant, muted horn of a taxi down on the streets.

POV: Jaxon I read it at 11:58. Two minutes early. Because I'd been watching the clock since ten and at 11:58 I couldn't wait anymore and I opened it with the particular braced quality of someone who'd seen the shape of the thing coming and was about to find out how bad the actual thing was. Not as bad as it could've been. Bad enough.

If there will be any. The clock from above struck heavily, signalling the commencement of a new hour and Harold sighed. Whether he liked it or not, the contest was drawing nigh and he wasn't prepared physically, mentally and emotionally and instead of preparing to become a better person, he was there, picking sharp objects off the floor and cleaning books with a rag that smelt awfully.

“Have a good night, Char. I’m heading home now.” “See you on Monday!” “Lock the door on your way out, please,” I reminded her. “Got it, Boss.” In fifteen minutes, I’d already reached my car and was on my way to the busy street of New York. Frankly, I hadn’t had a date in a really long time. I thought it was because I was just too busy that I barely had any spare time. I was a single mother and a small-business owner. I had no time during weekdays and on the weekend, I spent all forty-eight hours with Sev to make up the hours he’d had to spend in daycare whenever I’d had a venue to tend.

She says with a hint of sorrow in her voice. "Maybe," He grunted. "Bottom of the food chain. That’s what others call Omegas." She uttered in sorrow. Velmont did not respond; he took one of the books and helped her with the research. Minutes, hours, then almost half the day goes by, and still nothing. The duo finally called it a day when the clock reached ten in the evening. They started arranging the books back on the shelves when suddenly Gertrude noticed a book neatly stuffed at the back of the bookcase. She took it, "Book of Offerings 1321." She murmured. Velmont, on the other hand, continued arranging the books back.

“Skye, can I have a word with you?” Furrowing her brows, Arabella stepped out in front of me. “Mr. Suede, we are currently on the clock. Ms. Simms can’t possibly make the time.” Patrick looked at me, his eyes welling up. “Five minutes is all I’m asking for.” All eyes were on us. Letting out a sigh, I nodded at Arabella. “It’s okay. It’s just five minutes.” It was windy on the terrace of the convention center.

Callie The clock read 1:47 AM. I’d been tossing and turning for hours, my thoughts a mess of heat and memory and the way Grayson Carter had looked at me earlier, like he was trying not to look at all. I gave up on sleep and slipped downstairs, sketchbook under my arm, phone in the other. The house was dark and silent, the kind of quietness that settles deep in your bones. The only light came from the dim undercabinet glow in the kitchen.