Ring Seven Days Novels & Stories

The work and the waiting and the cost and the building. Seven days. I was ready.

Listening to her smug, self-righteous words, James’s fists clenched tighter. Yes, he had figured it out too late. The shattered glass cut deeper into his hand, blood dripping steadily onto the floor. With trembling fingers, he traced a single number in his own blood on the broken mirror, “7”. Only seven days left.

It was thin and glowed with a faint blue light. “Sienna,” I responded. "Hand," he commanded. I held out my hand. He slid the ring onto my finger. It clicked and tightened. It felt like it was part of my skin. "What is this?" I asked. "Your tally," Dan replied. "It’s a magic device. It tracks your orgasms. Rule Number Seven says you need ten a day. You just had your first one with William. The ring shows a '1'. You have nine more to go before the sun sets, or you'll spend the night in the 'Punishment Pit.' Trust me, you don't want that."

My Cheating Mate Jeremy pov Seven days. We'd given the Council one week to respond to our offer. Seven days to decide whether they'd rather shape the future of supernatural integration or continue fighting it and becoming increasingly irrelevant. Seven days of preparation. Seven days of coalition coordination. Seven days of pretending to Grace that everything was normal while tension stretched like wire through every conversation, every meal, every quiet moment. Grace, being Grace, knew something was happening anyway.

My throat burned and my body ached from the weight of everything I was pretending not to feel. "I will," I said quietly. “For now.” Amber didn’t smile this time. She just looked at me, really looked, and in her eyes, I saw it. The same fire. The same grief. The same rage. And the same plan. “We make it seven days,” she said. “And then we leave everything.” My heart beat once, louder than the music, louder than the voices of wolves praising a marriage I wanted no part of. But in seven days, exactly one week, it’ll all be over.

His knowledge that I'd already made up my mind. Seven days. Three lives hanging in the balance. And me planning to walk straight into Draven's trap. What could possibly go wrong?

The seventh birthday falls on a Thursday in November. Again. Always. Ethan's framework, now in its eighth year of revision, holds with complete consistency: Thursdays are the arrival day. Not the day things matter — that is Tuesday — but the day things that will matter arrive. He presented this distinction to Valentina in September with the formality of a researcher presenting a finding he is confident in. She accepted it without endorsing it officially, which is also consistent.

Her lips trembled, but no words came out. Mrs. Cunningham stood to the side, wanting to curse at me, but not daring to. Seven years of marriage. Twenty years of friendship. In the face of betrayal and lies, it had all become worthless. I had nothing more to say. I turned, ready to leave this nauseating place.

"Seven days. We will use them. Train you to harness that power properly. Unite as many packs as we can. Prepare for war." "And at the end of seven days?" "We end Marcus." Rowan's amber eyes blazed. "Permanently." I looked at my four mates, at the determination in their faces, the love in their bonds. Then I looked at the bodies, at the blood, at the promise of violence to come. "Okay," I said softly. "Seven days. We prepare. We train. We unite every pack that will stand with us." "And then?" Asher asked.

"We’re good at fixing things that are broken." ​He pulled her closer, his breath steady against her temple. "Yeah," he murmured. "We are." ​The fourth day ended not with a bang, but with the quiet, rhythmic breathing of two people who had finally stopped running. The verdict was coming. The person above Richard was falling. But in a small room in Georgetown, for the first time in their lives, the story was finally about them. ​Washington D.C. Friday. 9:00 AM. ​The phone rang.