The Book That Wouldn't Burn Novels & Stories

She said in a low whisper some seconds later after getting in. I closed my mouth rolling my eyes, I didn't know I was really drooling on my book. She exaggerated sometimes. I perched one of my legs up, crossing it over the other one, raising my butt a little higher. I just wanted to be comfortable and get so done with the long book. I heard a low groan but I knew it must have come from outside, possibly from Ander, the gardener. "What's squirting cherry?" I asked getting disgusted from the part I was reading.

Then the poetry. Handwritten. Sometimes sonnets. Sometimes messy, jagged pieces that felt like they’d been ripped straight from his chest. One read: If I could be the rain that slips down your shoulder, If I could be the sky you look up at in rage I’d let you strike me down, again and again, If only to stay close to your fire. I threw that one in the trash. Three hours later, it was tucked inside the cash register. And then came the books. First editions. Stories I’d loved. Stories I’d once read aloud to Damien in the Blackwood library when we were young and tangled in something that felt like forever.

END OF FLASHBACK Mrs Young, with the great eagle she had never gave up easily. The thought of Taylor disobeying her wishes made her even more furious. She gave out a heavily sigh, and walked into her two sons company, lost in her thoughts thinking of ways not to lose such influential business partners, It was almost like gambling with her life when ever she meant business.

While Proserpina can only stare, stunned into bewildered silence–but there was a part of her that was completely horrified–as the goddess of wisdom simply brings the fire to meet the open book because, for real, what the hell is she doing? The cover, for some reason, as if defiant, as if spiteful, refuses to burn, refuses to be destroyed even at the face of Athena’s power, only scorched at best from the edge… but the yellowed pages inside blacken so easily, large pieces of them were quickly turning into crumbled dusts and ashes to the floor, already being carried off by a sudden wind and something like a whimper almost escaped the younger goddess’ lips at the sight… The goddess of shadows bi

she said to herself. The fourth book begins at chapter 1 in Paris. The End.

Left with no choice, I tried to key in the password instead, but it had been changed as well. My crushing sense of defeat turned into rage, and I pounded the door. "I know you're inside, Harrison! Get out here!" I kept shouting until my throat was strained before the door finally opened ever so slightly. Harrison scowled at me, his gaze making it seem as if I were his mortal enemy. Keeping his voice down, he threatened me, "Are you crazy, Vivian? Must you insist on causing trouble for me? If you insist on keeping this up, we should just—"

, it can be found on any book platform and unlike this book, Burning passion is a novella, so just sit back and enjoy a long blissful erotic stories THANK YOU AGAIN❤️!!

--- Burning Empire Chapter 1 Matteo’s heart hammered like a drum as he slipped through the crowded streets, clutching the small leather pouch tight beneath his coat. The city buzzed all around him — neon signs flickering, voices shouting, music pounding from nearby bars. But Matteo barely heard it. All he could focus on was the pounding in his chest and the sharp, cold weight in his pocket. This was it. His first real score.

Even the bishop, once warm and jovial, began requesting odd reports about Isabella’s daily activities. And Catherine—despite her physical absence—was ever-present. She had sent a parcel to the church. Inside was a book. No note. No name. Just the title embossed in gold: "The Altar We Burned." It was written in Isabella’s handwriting. But she had never written such a book. Arthur’s hands shook as he turned the pages. They detailed dreams Isabella had shared only with him. Secrets she hadn’t spoken aloud. The book was a threat.

Watching me give a speech on TV, my five-year-old asked, "Mommy, what's Ariadne?" "It's a special code I wrote, sweetheart. It's like a shield against the bad guys. It turns into butterflies that fly to girls who need help, whispering to them: 'No more tears, no more punishment, no more suffering.'" She nodded, half-getting it. I clasped her hand, and in a way, the hand of my eighteen-year-old self, and together we walked into a brighter world. The girl who once perished in a personal hell finally crafted her very own paradise.