Schmidt 29 Novels & Stories

Maybe I really should have woken up earlier. ***** LMCD22

The door opened. I didn't hear him approach. I never did. Wolfgang Schmidt moved like smoke through his own house, his presence filling the room before his body even crossed the threshold. He was sixty-three, silver-haired, with the build of a man who had spent his life commanding armies and breaking enemies. He wore a charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, and his eyes - pale blue, glacier-cold - fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Leave us," he said. Not a request. A command.

He has to be harsh to someone who was once his best friend. Shane gets on his cell and within minutes the door to our SUV opens and Adrian's face appears in the doorway. He starts sniffing the air and lets out a low growl. These are all signs indicating that he can smell his mate but there are only men in here. "MATE!" I hear a growl from behind me and quickly remember that Alpha Harold's daughter is also in here with us. How the fuck did I forget that? "MATE!" echos through the SUV as Adrain growls low before getting inside and staring at her. It's also at this point that I realize that I don't even know her name.

His presence filled the space before he even spoke. “Mrs. Blackthorn,” he said smoothly, his tone refined, charming even. “I hope I’m not intruding. I do intend to come on time when it is meetings like this.” I gestured for him to sit. “Not at all. You have me at a disadvantage, though. I don’t believe we’ve met. And given your scent, I can tell that you are not from here, Alpha.” He smiled, slow and confident, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “Forgive me. Alpha Lorenzo D’Amaris. But I choose to go by Mr. D’Amaris when it is amongst humans.”

I trailed off. "Ask her to repeat the question," Hayden suggested, and I smacked my forehead, wondering why I hadn't thought of that. "Can you repeat that?" I asked, and she rolled her eyes. "What's number seventy-seven on the Periodic Table of Elements?" she asked, and I pursed my lips, instantly forgetting. Dammit.

"What the hell are you doing in my quarters?" He arches a dark brow, taking a slow sip. "Tronte Nielsen called me." I grind my teeth, my inner wolf growling low in my throat. "Of course he did." Ulrich sets his chalice down on the stone table. "He says you're trying to move Stevens into the citadel with you. And that you moved up the mate ceremony." "My mate bond is my business," I mutter, striding past him to pour myself a horn of mead. The alcohol burns down my throat, but it does little to settle my restless wolf.

I said, hanging up before staring at the email for a second, tapping the table twice before nodding. Let’s see what you’re up to, Domenico Mancini.

The person had said that after twenty-four hours, Ashton would be as good as dead. The handcuffs had been concocted with some kind of drug mixed with Ashton's blood that targeted his inner wolf. It was supposed to weaken his wolf so much that it will fall into a deep slumber and Ashton will never be able to bring it out again. If the handcuffs stayed on him longer, he might lose his life. Although Ashton and his wolf Adams were weak, Ashton still felt some resistance from Adams. Adams was trying to resist whatever was trying to drain his life out of him as he struggled inside Ashton.

MATTEO RODRIGUEZ Matteo Rodriguez has just gotten back from his morning exercise. His body dripped of sweat and smelt of fresh leaves and of woods. He marched straight to the fridge and grabbed a sachet of packaged blood. He tore it open with one bite and gulped the whole content at a go. He wheezed out air and hissed noisily with a squeezed face. There was nothing better than drinking human blood.

The flickering torches lining the chamber walls did little to ease the coldness in the air. The room—part occult sanctuary, part tomb of forgotten rituals—held centuries of whispers embedded into its stone. At the center, seated on a throne carved from black obsidian and bone, sat Solmyra, her hollow eyes fixed on the curling smoke that rose from a shallow bowl. Her silvered hair cascaded over her shoulders, glowing faintly under the runes etched into the ceiling above her. She looked tired, though the word didn’t quite suit her. She was not old in the traditional sense—Solmyra had long outlived the body she was born in.