Scorched Novels & Stories

That song, was the mark that means the end of the game. She cried and cried her eyes out in joy. 'Thank god,' she said inside her heart. 'I have survived another day of the hunt.' —

She watched as he frowned at the button , his chiseled face was like a sculpture, he had thick and roughly carved brows she felt like running her hands on them. He had a well carved beards which had evidence of not been shaved for a while, they where prickly but also tickled wherever his face brushed her arm. The lock of hair that had been on his forehead head was now brushing his eyes, Ann had the strongest urge to brush it from his eyes and indeed they did feel marvelously silky. Oh on! She had touched it, and now he was looking at her. But this time not only did he look frustrated, there was something else, it wasn't there before and it reminded her of the day at the library.

Lauren gazed into the mirror as she peeled off her clothes, not wanting to miss a single sight of it. The once white bandages that had been wrapped on her back now had a hue of red. She sighed and even when she knew it would earn her scolding from Malcolm, she slowly peeled the bandage off her back closing her eyes at the gory sight that greeted her. Her eyes teared. She didn’t believe it was this bad. And Bryan had seen it too? It made her sob more. She didn’t want him to end up having trauma because of her. She was used to it after all.

Vice retorted as he pushed past Jax and jumped on his bike, "And, it's Vice. Vincent was the naive fucker that let himself get pushed over way too much... he was the one that let the only person he ever trusted send him away without an explanation, nothing! Vice, however - Vice will blow your fucking head off before you have the chance." As Scar neared the Wolves' club, the first thing he noticed was a large, black cloud coming from where the building stood. The second thing was the ash that lingered in the air as he approached and the third was the flames that could be seen for miles. Scar's breath hitched as he sped up, ignoring the screams coming from the man tied to his bike. The rider f

Everything I do, every step I take, is all in a bid to make her smile; I need her, in a way I never thought I'd need someone ; My willpower must remain intact however; Never must I waver; Not even during those brief moments when she thinks I'm not looking, and I feel the hatred pouring off her in waves; Or when she cringes as I reach for her hand before deciding it's okay to trust me; It's not her fault though; I know that, and I love her for trying to make me feel loved; But I am scarred by her resentment; The curse I can never lift. "Having fun?"

This way you wouldn’t have to put up with me… Yes. You should just lie down and accept that you’re going to get torn to pieces by those monsters, how fitting of an end it is. I mean your family did cut into you and throw you away like you were the dirt on the bottom of their shoes, they wanted you to be bait. They wanted you dead. In their defence I would have done the exact same. That’s exactly what that scar means it’s why you should give up. You were meant to die when they used you. My eyes sting as tears and sweat enter them, I should give up. It would be better for everyone if I just stopped trying. Is that what I should do? Give up? Like a coward?

He looked as sickly as ever, but his voice was as sharp as a blade. "You two sure love playing the grieving parents," he said, tilting his head. "It almost looks real." That shut them up. Their eyes flicked to me, full of hope. Mom spoke carefully. "Jolene… you're okay. That's all that matters." I stepped forward. Pressed my fingers to the broken corner of her lips—where Fiona had scratched. Then I pushed, hard, until blood oozed from the wound. With a look of pure disgust, I wiped my fingers on her shirt.

The scorched remains of the second Nyxorian village still whispered with heat, blackened skeletal beams jutting from ashen rubble like charred bones. Smoke curled upward into the sky, thick with the stench of fire, iron, blood, and vengeance. Triston sat atop his black warhorse at the front lines, his figure carved in steel and wrath, He didn’t move, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest, each breath a restraint, each exhale a promise. His eyes, narrowed and locked on the horizon, burned with purpose.

Alas, it was Damian Blackwood. His gaze hit me like a blow, a reminder that his eyes were the one pair that were not supposed to be seeing this. His hair was rumpled and the reek of bourbon hung about him even from a distance-though I could not tell if it was because he really did smell like that or because I had become so used to him smelling like that that my brain associated it with him. His eyes-red-circled and blazing-flamed with a fury I hadn't seen in years.

Paws scorching the earth. Breath melting stone. It did not move. Did not growl. Did not blink. It only watched me. Eyes like deep coals, lit from within. A gaze that had witnessed the ruin of ages. I wanted to move closer — but recognition froze me. It knew me. My name. My flame. The death I was born from. Then— The forest ignited. Trees screamed. The sky cracked. The ground split. I fell — into heat, into shadow, into silence.