Thus Spoke Rohan Kishibe

I thought mates were meant to love you. I thought they were meant to cherish you, so why was mine so different? Why was he such a coward that he rejected me without a beat when his father asked him to? What of the night we had spent? My life had always been trash, so when I was banished, it was no surprise no one spoke for me, but what they didn't know was I would be back five years later with a prophecy to tell, and my baby alpha, to claim his rightful position as heir. But what happens when things doesn't go as planned, and the prophecy itself was the one she was going to hate?

Living with my aunt and her family was meant to be a temporary, quiet arrangement just helping out and keeping to myself. On the first day of the new year, while everyone else was out celebrating, I stayed home, enjoying the rare silence and catching up on sleep. But when we ran out of water, I reluctantly stepped outside to fetch some, and that’s when I saw him. He stood by the gate of the house next door, effortlessly commanding attention with just a glance. A smirk played on his lips, and a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes behind his blue-ray glasses. At that moment, he was impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, I felt disheveled and barely awake, my hair was a mess and still shaking off sleep. But he didn’t seem to mind. There was something about him an air of mystery that made me wonder who he was and why he was there. Before I could look away, he spoke, “Hi.” Caught off guard, I managed a quick, “Hi,” while trying to pull myself together. “Can I know your name?” he asked. I hesitated but replied, “I’m Clara,” and kept walking. “Can I have your number?” he called after me. “Just as friends.” I almost refused but reluctantly agreed, entering my number into his phone. “There,” I said, handing it back. “I’ll call you,” he promised with a smile, as I turned to leave. What began as a chance encounter soon became an inexplicable connection. He had secrets, but there was something about him that saw through me, understanding things no one else did. The man I met next door wasn’t just a fleeting stranger,he became the reason I started questioning everything I thought I wanted.

"Ava, you don't have to do this. Come back to the pack." Hayes spoke, catching up to me. He's right. Why am I doing this? I'm his Luna, so why am I fleeing? Tears burning at the back of my eyes, I stare straight into his eyes. "I, Ava Chester, reject you, Hayes Reid, Alpha of Nightshade Pack as my Mate." Immediately the words left my lips, I felt something snap—my heart feeling torn—and my wolf winced. "I—I won't accept this rejection, Ava." He managed to say, amidst deep gasps. Wasn't he the same person who hated me from the very first day he saw me?! I saw pain—and something else I couldn't quite figure out—flash through his features as he bored his eyes into me, as if only realising now how much pain he had caused me. If anyone had told me two months ago that I would one day reject Hayes as my mate, I'd have had the person executed and his head put on a stake. •~. .~• Ava, betrothed to Hayes, is in love with him and has wanted nothing more than finally meeting him. But her fantasies of him had been nothing but that—mere fantasies, as she realises that Hayes wasn't who she had thought him to be. After loosing his mate, and brother to a rogue attack, Hayes is left as the new alpha of the pack without a chance to properly mourn his loss. With the sudden death of his mate, he decides to enclose his heart. As the new alpha, Hayes is faced with the duty of getting a Luna, especially as his betrothed has now reached marriageable age, despite him not wanting it. While still mourning the loss of his first mate, how, then, was he to crown another his Luna?

"The 10th circle of hell was actually the earth, and being alive is the real tormention." Naenia Lovercraft is a ghostwriter who's in a dire need of money, but because she's an epitome of a mad woman, every potential client tries to run for their lives away from her. Well except for this skull-mask wearing guy who introduced himself as Lord Serenade. He was indeed interested in making her write his gory fantasies and buy her works. However, it comes with certain conditions and it should include Neania herself. To live with him. In an old mansion. In the middle of nowhere. Thus, with mysteries to unveil and countless crimes relating to violence, one must connect the dots for everything before the cops arrest the wrong culprit. But in a world full of temptations and sins, who could really stay true to righteousness and prove that there's really a wrong culprit?

Roseline's stomach turned and her fist clenched tightly around the handle of the big travel box beside her. She heard the clanging sound of the metallic head of Thompson's belt meeting the ground. Next, quite footsteps. Then, Thompson appeared in her view, like a ghost she didn't believe existed. He was completely bare, with his hairy chest rising and falling slowly, his cock shooting out in front like a gun ready to be fired, his balls bloated from desire, swinging from side to side as he walked closer to bed. Roseline's feet stuck to the ground and her eyes refused to blink as they looked on. "That's it, my boy. Hmm! I like what I see", the red hair gasped, rolling her eyes longingly at Thompson. As Thompson climbed unto the bed, his eyes totally locked in hers, she drew her breasts closer him, then, proceeded to rock the big pumpkins against the flushed skin of his face. "You like them?", she asked, moaning lightly. Thompson paused. Then, in a defiant move of uncontrollable desire, dug his chin into her breasts, burying his entire face in them. "Ouch", she gasped, then broke into a weak laugh, pushing his head more into her chest. "The damn bra", she spoke again, twisting uncomfortably as she threw her hands behind her to unhook the material. But Thompson caught her hands. Without words, his head still hidden in her cleavage, he slowly returned her hands to his head. Obliging to his silent command, she cackled loudly, pressing her chest even more into his face and then, with her tongue, glided across his neck and ears hungrily. Roseline froze. She wanted to scream but in that moment, she forgot how to.

Elena had once believed that silence could mean safety. That a gentle hand and a warm cup of tea placed quietly on her desk every morning could be a form of love. Lucien was never cruel—not in the obvious ways. He remembered how she liked her eggs, noticed when she swapped her perfume, and sent flowers on days he knew she wouldn’t expect them. He raised her like one would raise a pet—softly, without question. And Elena, foolish in the way only the very lonely can be, mistook his quiet affection for devotion. She told herself he was reserved. Mysterious. That love didn’t always wear its heart on its sleeve. But when the old flame returned—the one who spoke his language without needing to try—Elena saw it. The difference. He looked at her like a man who had found his lost religion. And Elena? She had simply been convenient. No tears, no scene. Just papers on the breakfast table, beside the eggs he cooked perfectly. She didn’t accuse or beg. She only asked for freedom. He didn’t sign. He chuckled. A soft, dismissive sound. “A cat raised indoors doesn’t know how to survive on the street, Elena. You’ll come back." But she didn’t. She disappeared, like smoke—except she didn’t vanish, not really. She lived. She wore colour again. Laughed at bad jokes. Let strange men hand her coffee and ask for her number. Lucien? He watched. He watched her become someone without him. And it drove him mad. The night he cornered her outside the gallery, rain in his hair and desperation in his eyes, he looked like a man undone. "Elena," he breathed, "please. Look at me. Just once." She did. Calm as ever, and her love already gone.

My husband, Clement Norman, promised to make up for our missed honeymoon. It was five years late, but I was still excited. I got ready and really looked forward to it. But right before we boarded the plane, I realized there was someone extra in our group—Clement's childhood friend, Madison Bowen. He explained half-heartedly, "Madison's never been abroad before. I figured we could bring her along." I wasn't thrilled, but when I spoke up, he made it sound like I was being dramatic. "Are you jealous of our relationship because you didn't grow up with a proper family? I see her as a sister. You wouldn't get it—you grew up an orphan." I chose to stay quiet, not wanting to ruin our honeymoon. But we encountered an avalanche halfway through the trip. My leg got stuck deep in the snow, and I couldn't move. And the first thing Clement did was grab Madison's hand and run. He didn't even look back.