Romantic Mystery Novels Novels & Stories

​ ​The air inside the library was stale, smelling of centuries-old paper and the lingering, clinical scent of my father's cologne. ​The new locks on the mahogany doors were heavy and cold, a physical manifestation of the secrets Victor was desperate to keep buried. ​I held the small, makeshift lockpick Julian had fashioned for me, my hands trembling as I worked at the mechanism. ​Every creak of the floorboards in the hallway sent a spike of adrenaline through my veins, making it nearly impossible to focus.

But Arabella’s heart had already begun beating far too quickly. A breeze moved softly through the marketplace between them. Neither spoke for several moments. Then Edwin finally gestured toward the bookstore. “Do you enjoy reading?” “Yes.” “What sort of books?” Arabella hesitated. “Poetry mostly.” One dark brow lifted slightly. “Romantic poetry?” Her cheeks warmed instantly. “Sometimes.” Edwin looked dangerously amused again. “You continue to surprise me, Lady Arabella.” “And you continue mocking me.” “Only because you blush so beautifully.” The words escaped him so naturally that both of them froze afterward.

Wanted to surrender to whatever storm was brewing between us, consequences be damned. I reached for the door handle myself, pushing it open. The bedroom was grand but tasteful—midnight blues and charcoal grays, heavy furniture that spoke of old money and older secrets. A fire crackled in a marble fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the moonlit gardens below, the maze of hedges like a labyrinth I’d willingly entered. “Your castle, Brocandale?” I asked, attempting humor to mask my nervousness.

That would be emotional suicide. I moved away from the romance section quickly, like it might contaminate me somehow. Crime thriller. I'd read a crime thriller. Something with murder and investigations and absolutely zero sexual tension. That was safer. Much safer. I browsed the mystery section and pulled out a book I'd heard good things about. A detective novel set in London. Dark, gritty, complex. Perfect. I carried it to one of the comfortable chairs by the window and settled in. The chair was incredibly comfortable—soft leather that seemed to mold around me. There was a small side table with a reading lamp. A footstool I could put my feet up on.

Chuckling he took my fingers in his hand and started to move it against the cards randomly, closing his eyes and chanting something between his lips. "Seriously, I will pick one, please not this bullcrap," I pull my fingers away and randomly pick a card and place it in his hands. "Ha!" I shrieked when his voice beamed around us. Lowering the card away from his face he turned the card towards. I narrowed my eyes on the card. "Beast, " His voice bellowed behind him as I was met with a black coloured card, a serene moon shining down the lake and a majestic wolf standing by the lake looking upon the moon.

A sharp bell rang out, echoing through the night. A shrill voice announced, "The time has come. Let the bride enter!" A black carriage, lavishly decorated yet unsettling, rolled in slowly. The door opened, and a bride in a blood-stained wedding dress stepped out gracefully. "Where's my groom?" George hurried over, waving for the puppets to drag me away. He pointed at the players seated at a long table. "My lady, please take a look. Which one do you favor?" The bride lifted her veil. Blood slid down her face like melting wax. Her crimson eyes swept across the crowd. "I'm not satisfied with any of them. Not a single one looks pleasing."

Even so, the whole process feels like a battle, and I am already exhausted by the time I have the books in my hands. I still read romantic novels. There is something comforting about them, even if some of the stories hit a little too close to home. Some of the plots are eerily similar to my own life, while others are pure escapism—beautiful, heartwarming tales from start to finish. Sure, the characters face hardships and tribulations, but what always stands out to me is the love and trust between the couples. It is the kind of love that feels unshakable, the kind I used to dream about. Now, I am not so sure if that kind of love exists for me anymore.

he said. "Thank you," I said wondering why he was being so nice to her. He's nice to other workers too but he's nicer to her. I searched the collection of books for the one I'll read. Just so sad Damian adores mystery novels. I don't enjoy them. "Here, I bought you some romantic novels," he said behind me. "Huh?" I said turning in the process. My hands flew to my mouth when I saw the novels on the table. Not one, not two, nor three but more than dozens which I couldn't even count by just standing here, and it looks like they were all written by my favorite author.

The rug was a lost cause, and so was I. Ava traced lazy circles on my stomach. “Still catching the morning train?” I laughed, raw. “Changed my plans. Indefinitely.” Ethan pressed a kiss to my shoulder. “Good. We’re just warming up.” Liam’s hand slid between my thighs, teasing. “Chapter two starts at dawn.” I closed my eyes, sated and aching and already wet again. The lodge smelled of sex and pine and possibility. Outside, the mountain stood silent. Inside, three bodies curled closer, ready to write the next scene on my skin.

The smell of new books has kept enticing a chunk of the population, albeit a smaller percentage, and mostly, people who buy from us are collectors, those who are too rich to spend money on things of the past–and that's what we offer: old, tanning books with worn out spines; a remnant of the past, a time when HarmonyMatch was never a thing. I man the register for a couple of old folks who got a stack of magazines. I smiled as they walked out the store, his hands on her shoulder, both smiling as they talked about their purchase. I thought about how they were Matched, whether they knew each other before the ceremony, if they were childhood sweethearts, or if they were familiar faces you see on