Novel & Cerita Tessa Afshar Books

“Someone who actually reads. Who’s been broken before and didn’t turn careful forever. Someone who… sees me. Not the version I put on dating apps. The real one. Messy and scared and all of it.” The words hung there. Vulnerable. Too much. Callum went very still. His hand moved to his jacket pocket. He pulled out the wrapped book and set it on the table between them. Sloane stared at it. Her throat felt tight. “Who was it for?” she asked, voice small. He rubbed the back of his neck. “My date. She mentioned Zaha Hadid once. I spent three days hunting this down. Essays on beauty in architecture. Stupid, right?”

I would have gone after them, but Xena was right behind me. "We need to talk, Asher!” Indeed, we really needed to talk because I saw no cause for her to be displaying an animalistic behavior toward her fellow student. We made for the chemistry lab which was empty. "Asher, what the hell has come over you?! Why are you suddenly acting weird?” she yelled. "You were not always like this. Ever since you dragged that bitch out of the field, you have been acting strange like she possessed your mind with something." “Please remind me. How have I always been?" I wanted to know.

"The watcher has always been patient." Tessa had begun writing a new volume—not the stories of the witnesses, but the principles of the old magic. She sat with Vesper each afternoon, her notebook open, her pen moving across the page. The watcher showed her visions of the Archivist speaking to the first memory-flower, of Clara holding the stone, of Morwen waiting in the east courtyard.

(Al Quran 5:16) EXPLANATION OF TITLE: Vocation, maybe defined as, "A summon or strong inclination to a particular state or course of action, especially: a divine call to the religious life." OR "An entry into the priesthood or a religious order." (Merriam Webster) This book, primarily deals with the life of Aasiya, who fights through various struggles of life, in hopes to find peace and happiness. Whether she does or not, is for you to find out, InshaAllah. Lastly, I humbly pray to Allah SWT to grant His barakah and rehmah to this book and may everyone who read this book find hidayah. Thereby, gaining Allah's pleasure and acquiring success of both this world and the hereafter, InshaAllah.

"Ian, I was wrong. I'll admit to the mistake. Please let me out. I can't breathe in here. "Ian, please let me out. I'm suffocating. I could hardly breathe in here. "Ian…" While reading those unsent messages, Ian felt his vision turn black. He plopped down on the floor.

It’d been messy, good—too good—until he’d bailed, chasing some gallery deal in Paris, leaving her with a half-finished portrait and a hollow she’d buried deep. Roman shifted, his coat brushing the wall, and she snapped back, her chest tight. He wasn’t Tomas—too hard, too guarded—but the way he stood there, close and quiet, sparked that same ache, that same stupid pull. She glared at him, daring him to say something, anything, to break it.

She shifted to face the small window, viewing the moon which was coincidentally on the right angle of the small space, although misted by the passing clouds. Part of her wanted to shout, make a mess, claw at herself, yet her joints had long gone weak. For what reasons? Was it the tiredness? She didn't know. But for sure, what was left of her spent strength left her spirit. None of them hadn't seen their Alpha's injuries during the war, but they had always trusted him. So much that they believed he was a David against a Goliath, even if they ironically never gave the mortal Bible an inch of the value they give their moon goddess.

When I died, there was a woman reeking of talcum powder straddling me. She was my third client that night—and my last. She told me her favorite sound was the crisp snap of breaking bones—more beautiful than any music. My right hand had just been twisted at a grotesque angle, accompanied by her satisfied sigh, until it broke clean through. The pain hit like a white-hot brand, searing through my nerves—then receded just as fast, like a tide pulling back. All that was left was a numb, bone-deep cold. I could feel it clearly—life draining out of my ravaged body.

# Chapter 13: Twisted Truth Eve sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers still trembling from the fake panic attack she'd used to cover Marcus's latest threat. Alex held her close, his strong arms a shield against the world, while Lila prepared tea in the kitchen. The envelope from the mysterious figure burned in her hidden drawer, calling to her like a live wire. Everything felt like it was spiraling faster than she could control.