Picture Of Aphmau Novels & Stories

My wolf howled inside my head in response, it was clear that the words got into him. I walked to Amara's bed and sat on the edge close to the bedside table.I spotted the framed picture on the table and I couldn't tear my eyes off it. I stretched my shaky hands and picked it up. It was a picture of Amara alone. Her dark hair was tied into a ponytail and a few hair strands fell on either side of her face, making her look even more beautiful. She was wearing a white, sleeveless shirt and the collarbone was visible,damn! She looked so hot with those exposed shoulders.

“Then allow us to share what time has tried to bury.” She gestured toward an alcove lit by a soft blue flame. The walls within were covered in painted murals, depicting the history of the Saphiren Clan. One section showed the rise of the phoenix, Amarantha’s ancestors wielding medicine, light, and sound to heal and protect. Another displayed the emergence of their greatest threat, the Guxani Sect.

They would pay for what they did to her. Knox sent two pictures of Apphia, hoping they would soothe me. My mate looked so at peace in these pictures. Her pretty face was relaxed, and she was staring at the window with a calm smile. I put the picture on my phone wallpaper. I want to see her when I touch my phone.

Expecting the correction. The explanation. The misunderstanding. None came. "No." The word emerged weakly. Broken. Father Michael didn't argue. Didn't persuade. Didn't defend. He simply reached into his pocket. And handed her a photograph. Old. Worn. Protected for years. Amara looked. A young woman stood beside Samuel Okeke. Smiling. Happy. Alive. Amara's heart stopped. Because she knew that face. Not from memory. From pictures. From childhood. From the few photographs she still kept.

His jaw is clenched, and he lets out a tortured groan, like an animal caught in a trap. “Help,” I cry, not sure if I need help for me or for Axel or for both of us. Ama stands with muscular arms folded, a victorious smile on her face, like this moment is special for her. Hatred for her boils in my stomach. The shaman keeps shaking the feet, rattling them together like a rattlesnake, until I want to scream, to tear my hands off if that’s the only escape. The moon mark on my arm sears into my soul, wrapping around

AMARA'S APARTMENT - DAY TO EVENING The soft glow of the setting sun spills through the window, casting a warm hue across Amara's apartment. Amara stands in front of the canvas, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of emotions. As she dips her brush into vibrant colours, it's as if her hands have disconnected from her mind, moving with an autonomy driven by an unspoken need for escape.

15-year-old Shama ran upstairs to her apartment. She wore shabby clothes and her hair was wrecked. Her hands were dirty with mud. A tiny cupcake was in one of her hand which was half burnt and the other hand had a little doll made up of mud. She grabbed two candles in her mouth as she ran to the rooftop. Shama reached the rooftop and sat there. She went inside a little tent made up of shabby cloth. Many books and handmade items decorated it. A little lamp glowed in the dark. Shama took out a photo of her mother, father and grandpa.

And pressed a button. Beep. Amara suddenly gasped. Pain exploded violently through her head. Memories. Images. Voices. A woman crying. Someone shouting: “Take her! Take the child!” Running footsteps. Blood. Then, a woman holding her tightly. Tears in her eyes. And whispering: “Forgive me, Amara.” Amara froze. Because she knew that face. She knew it. Not from photos. Not from stories. From somewhere deep inside her memory.

The bishop entered cautiously first, followed by Hussein, then Miranda and Sophia, who clung to each other in fear. The room was dimly lit, its shadows flickering on the walls like restless ghosts. In a dark corner stood Amal. The sight was nightmarish: her pale, disfigured face was smeared with blood as if she were bleeding from within, her fingers viciously tearing at the flesh of her hands. Her wide, unblinking eyes were fixed on the ceiling, while her mouth emitted terrifying, intermittent screams that tore at the nerves of everyone present.

Those pieces, once hidden, were part of me—they were me. A cold stillness shifted, then melted away, leaving me standing at the edge of a haunting scene: an altar, cold and unyielding, marked with ancient symbols. Azmariah lay on it, her face pale, eyes flickering open, helplessly vulnerable. Her body was battered, bleeding, weak, yet she held onto a defiance that could not be snuffed out.