Steal Writing Novels & Stories

However, his tone suddenly shifted. "I have a bad habit. I enjoy the thrill of stealing," he confessed. "My life is a meticulously crafted timetable. From what I'll eat to the path I'll take, every aspect has been planned out for the next ten years. One day, I witnessed someone slipping a loaf of bread into their pocket at a convenience store. It triggered an adrenaline rush, and I couldn't resist the temptation to imitate it. It felt like an intangible sword hanging over me, ready to strike at any moment—the thrill, the nervousness, the excitement—it stimulates every fiber of my being. I slowly found myself stealing more often and even got caught a few times, so I’ve learned to be more caut

“Well, do you know what is a stealer, Ashira?” Stealer? I haven’t heard of it but there is some ring into that word. Have I heard it somewhere? The old lady took my silence as my answer and continued speaking. “Stealer is a wolf abnormality. They can produce a pup with another wolf who is not their mate. Some stealers are evil and those kinds steals the mate of others for fame, greed, or vanity.” she paused. I don’t think I need to hear some kind of useless story. Why is she trying to educate me about this stealer thing?

He quickly cleared his throat. “I am in the bathroom.” The other person was about to open when they heard his voice. “Sorry sir I didn’t know it was occupied.” It was one of the junior workers and his voice was shaking from fear. I was relieved my momentum was distu…….. I didn’t finish that as his finger went deep inside. He was not even scared we were almost caught. “How are you calm?” “They are called stolen moments for this reason. The adrenaline, the zeal and anticipation should feel like this.”

How hadn’t anyone noticed before? The knowledge about stealers was limited. They were a pack taboo, and in olden times once a stealer was found she was immediately exiled. They were a bad omen for any pack, a threat to the unity within. It was all because of the Stealer’s scent that could mimic that of a lost mate of a widowed wolf, or an unmated one who was yet to find his mate, thus making herself enticing to them. Stealers in legends and stories had always used this power to their advantage, turning pack member against pack member, leading them to massacre each other. They were told to be unable to speak the truth, unable to do anything other than entice and manipulate. When I was younger

On the first page, the introduction stated: [The man who steals had been known as a thief, a gentleman of knowledge, a flying thief, and there are sects of stealing, such as…] “Damn it! Why are they all the same? So pretentious,” Darryl muttered, but it was not long before he was hooked on the contents of the book. The Cult Mistress was right; this was indeed an interesting read. The stealing techniques used by modern-day thieves were considered unprofessional. This included using tools such as using long tweezers to steal a phone from a lady’s bag.

The deepest rot of an obsession doesn't show when the thief is quietly copying your walk or hiding behind your name; it erupts in a singular, unhinged scream of pure, concentrated envy when the stolen world is ripped from their fingers, exposing a lifetime of charting your milestones just to burn them down.

I ditched the pickaxe, looking for anything else to use, but in my frenzy, I stumbled and ended up on the floor. The footsteps behind me were getting louder. A cold sweat drenched my back as I curled up, cornered and powerless. The pitch-black cellar had me spouting anything that came to mind, a last-ditch plea. "Please, mister, have mercy! I can pay you—ten, twenty thousand dollars. Just let me go, and I'll owe you big time, even in my next life!" "You've been slaving away for twenty years already, isn't that enough? You want to keep it up in your next life too?"

Writing was my escape, my sanctuary. I recalled the countless nights I spent hunched over my laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I brought my characters to life. The thrill of publishing my first story online, the nervous anticipation as I waited for feedback, and the overwhelming joy when readers responded with praise and encouragement. Those were the moments that made it all worth it, the moments that kept me going. But now, all of that was at risk. Ava had stolen my work, my identity, and was basking in the glory that should have been mine. I felt a surge of anger, a burning desire to reclaim what was rightfully mine.

I ran down eight flights, hand on my belly like I could hold them in, heart slamming so hard I tasted metal. I didn’t stop until I was three blocks away, bent over on a bus bench, gasping. I looked at the flash drive in my palm. Small. Silver. Cold. It held my future. My sons’ names. Evelyn Sterling’s lie. I walked home in the rain. Didn’t care. Checked every car. Every face. Every shadow. No black sedan. No cream-suited woman. But I know they’re coming. Because I stole from them. And now I’ve got proof they’ve been lying from the start.

Then, in unison, every device came alive again. One word glowed across every surface, painted in molten gold letters that seemed to pulse with life: PRIDE. Alessandro stared at it, disbelief shadowing his face. “What does it mean?” Elena’s chest rose and fell, her eyes brimming with tears. Matteo’s voice slid through her veins like liquid light. It’s what they stole from me. And now, I’ll take it back.