Onyx Nick Cannon Novels & Stories

I usually end up on the ground because he is so fucking heavy. “So how are you planning on borrowing one of the animals?” I ask. “I borrow Onyx all the time.” Nick states. “For what?” Grayson asks. “To help track people.” Nick answers. That makes perfect sense. I still think it might raise a bit of suspicion if we have him sniffing around the gate to the property. I tell them this and Nick does not seem concerned. I guess he knows what he is doing. The last thing I want is to have the twins find out that someone is sending weird notes to the house. what I really want to avoid is having the other guys pissed at us for worrying the women.

Cannon snorts, hands buried inside his coat. “I hope so,” Wendigo gave a half-shrug, "maybe alone, I can't, but together, I'm very sure I can,” he glances at the Black gun by his side. “Useless mortals” The smirk on Cannon's face was so chilly, it was as though he was mocking the stupid guys who thought they could defeat him. “Not all mortals are as useless as you think,” Wendigo brags, he just doesn't understand who Cannon is and what he is capable of cause if he did, he won't have been blabbing nonsense.

okay?” Nick was concerned because I was in the middle of a mind link when Knox took over and sprinted around the lake to get to her. “I’m fine, but Knox scared the poor girl so bad she tripped and knocked herself out.” I heard Connelly gasp through the mind link, “Is the Luna okay? Do we need to come down there. Fuck it. I’m coming and bringing the first aid kit.” Connelly was a bit out there. His mate had rejected him a few years back and he has learned to cover up that pain with humor. In all reality it’s sad, but I gave him purpose when I made him my Gamma and I’m glad that I did. He is stronger than what he appears and light on his feet. He is also incredibly smart. I have left him in c

Cain begins to feel irritated looking at Onyx acting all formal. “Stop acting politely and all formal. It’s disgusting.” Cain says abruptly. Onyx loses his patient and stares at him fiercely. He is boiling with anger. Suddenly, his suit is steaming and gas emits throughout his body. Then, a crimson fire burns the entire suit and traces to his hair. When the fire has burnt out, Onyx appearance has changed. He’s wearing a black hooded-singlet, a black trouser with chain hanging from one of the pocket, and a pair of black leather boots with belts strap all over it. His iris shifts from amber to electric blue.

When I finished and entered the room, I saw Austin looking at his cell phone. “What are you looking at?” Glancing at me, he sighed. “My stepmother Sonya told my dad that Nick was her mate and the true father of her two sons. I asked Nick about it, and he adamantly denied it. I'm curious about who she was gathering information for about the Red Moon Pack. She gained a lot of valuable information to orchestrate an attack. Anyway, I was searching the pack database for individuals named Nick, He explained as he rubbed his forehead. Furrowing my brow, I screwed my face in thought.

Side-stepping, he nodded, keeping his head down as they passed, one making for the bathroom, the other to the gas station’s repulsive selection of hot ‘foods’ to-go. He cast a knowing wink at the attendant, receiving a dopey grin in return, then forced himself to amble nonchalantly across the lot to the awaiting camper and start the pump. Making a point to look busy dumping his vehicle trash piecemeal while the infernal tank filled, Nick kept his head down, anxiously waiting. There were only four of them here—the useless attendant behind the counter and the two officers besides himself. With the element of surprise, he could probably kill all three of them with the shotgun. He debated the ri

Twelve hours to decide if we run, fight, or burn everything down together. Nico is at the steel table, hunched over a burner laptop, fingers flying across keys as he reroutes accounts, scrubs digital footprints, sets false trails that will lead any pursuer in circles for weeks. His shirt is open, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fresh bruises blooming purple along his knuckles from the fight upstairs. Every few minutes he glances up—first at the monitors, then at me. Victor stands at the weapons rack, methodically checking magazines, sliding knives into concealed sheaths, loading a compact pistol he straps to his ankle under the tactical pants. His movements are precise, almost meditative. The