The King In Yellow Novels & Stories

“My King… I-I’m sorry,” “Shh,” he cooed, his forehead found Klara’s, a thumb swiped at one of her dirty cheeks. She cocked her head slightly looking at his features. His strong angular jaw with sharp cheekbones. A nick in his eyebrow and then her eyes landed on his, the deep gold like no other eyes she’d ever seen. His hold on her was one of strength and power despite his leaner figure compared to the other men around her bed. His rich walnut hair pushed back while the sides were cropped short. She had an urge to run her hands through his bark coloured hair, but she refrained… he was The King. The King licked his pale pink lips, the small woman in his arms a mixture of scared and intrigue et

Scene towards the kingdom aradonna (colour Golden symbol the red fire) The throne room is grand and opulent, adorned with gilded decorations and tapestries depicting the king's victories. At the center, a massive throne looms, occupied by KING RODERICK, a ruthless and imposing figure. His eyes are cold and calculating, exuding an air of power and authority.

~Clavem~ I removed the cover from my mouth to breathe easy; after all, there were no other werewolves around me, so I wouldn't be caught. My lips parted at what I discovered in the picture. A mystical woman under the sunset. According to the picture I'm holding, the former king kisses the woman, Heres' father, on the cheek. But the part of the woman's face in the picture was torn. Another thing that added to my doubt and wonder was when I saw the woman wearing a simple yellow dress because I was sure that the queen hated this color and taste of fashion style, and the queen was not white; she was completely brunette.

She swept her wavy brown hair over one shoulder and grabbed her clutch. In the taxi, Amy hugged Matt’s arm in excitement. The rambling old brownstone she called home was a world away from the gleaming venue lit up like a crystal palace, the floral displays worthy of Marie Antoinette. As Matt headed off to check on his catering staff, Amy snagged a flute of champagne and wandered starry-eyed through the extravagance. Until she collided face-first with a wall of solid muscle encased in a tux. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!” Amy squeaked. Looking up, she met the weird gaze of Viktor Valenko, infamous billionaire chief executive dubbed "the King of Wall Street” by gossip blogs. The hard planes of his f

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The king said no more, striding forward with determined, brisk steps. As he moved away, his figure draped in purple and gold seemed to loom even larger, exuding an air of authority. Yet beneath that imposing demeanor, there was an unmistakable hint of something darker—an aura of suppressed violence, as though the very air around him had been tainted with the scent of blood.

She took a deep breath before pushing open the door, her limbs once again shaking. Inside the room was two men, and a woman. She was certain that the man in the middle, a man only a few years older than her, at the head of the table as they all sat around, was the King. He had shaggy black hair, and was lazily lounged out, with his feet in another chair. However, just as she realized that the wonderful scent of a warm fireplace seemed nearly overpowering in here, his eyes snapped up to hers, and she saw the depths of his amber eyes. She felt like she was going to be eaten alive if she looked into them for too long.

I had to bite back laughter watching the Lycan king devour cheap grilled fish, oil smearing the corner of his lips. “Your Majesty—” I laughed freely. “A king shouldn’t eat like that.” He wiped his mouth with a cloth. “I’m hungry.” “Oh… so unrefined.” “Veya, you’re getting bolder with me,” he growled, his golden eyes glinting with teasing danger. “Have you forgotten who I am?” I smiled wide, cupping my cheeks. “I know. But outside the palace, I see a different version of my king.” He studied me for a long moment, then let out a soft laugh. After that, we stopped at a fabric stall. The merchant tried to cheat us with an inflated price. But King Rael scented the lie like blood in water.

Or with the fact that I’m lying in his bed. With him. With the quiet, undeniable truth sitting heavy in my chest. I can’t believe I slept with him. Not because I didn’t want to— but because I swore I never would. Rule one: don’t mix pleasure with business. Rule two: don’t give anyone leverage over your body. And yet. I turn my head just enough to look at him. Dante Valenti. King of his world. A man who could have anyone he wanted—women who are soft and full and untouched by scars. Women with curves and laughter and easy beauty.

He wanted them to know that while he might be a traitor in their eyes, he was a king in his own right. "I’m alive," I said, my voice sounding distant. "That’s all that matters, right?" "More than you know," Carla murmured with a smile on her face. She smoothed the fabric over my hips. I was wearing a gown that felt like a second skin. Heavy yellow silk pooled around my feet like liquid gold. Wearing yellow was a bold choice. A color that demanded to be seen. I would show the King that I was done hiding in the shadows. "So you’re not in any pain right now?" Carla asked, her eyes catching mine in the mirror.

Nurul Islam stroked Abrar's hair and began: "Once there was a king. His son was very honest. His grandson was even more honest. One day, the uncle came and said, 'I want the throne of the kingdom. If you want to save your grandson's life, you must fight...'" The room grew dim; everyone's eyelids grew heavy. But Arian knew—he would have to stay awake through the night. Because old enemies do not sleep, and they were now running after Abrar.