Under The Dome Novels & Stories

With her hair a mess, the blue sweatpants she had been wearing since last night, on her knees and with just tears coming of her eyes, Diego felt tempted to want to hear her up. But not, his pride of man advised not to listen her. And gathering all his negative feelings and emotions, Diego went to her and helped her to get up. “Get the hell out of here! I don’t want to have a prostitute under my roof!” And then he pushed her out, closing her door in her face. Cameron’s tears had stuck in her eyes when she heard that word. ‘A prostitute.’ ‘A prostitute.’ She was not a prostitute.

It wasn’t so difficult, was it? “Please, silly, don’t do this. You don’t know what day today is, right?” “Please, Adele. I swear I won’t do anything else. I’m just gonna dance and that’s it.” “Today is Sunday, the men wait for one of the women to get undressed tonight. April, you can’t do this tonight.”

“Where exactly?” “Patience,” he said, smirking even though sweat trickled down his face. “Alright, I’ve got the coordinates. Looks like… huh. The Dome Club.” I froze. “The what?” “The Dome Club. That underground bar is more than twenty miles away. The place is known for its rough crowd. It has a mix of humans with rogues there sometimes. Not your kinda place, Alpha.” A growl ripped from my chest. “What the heck is she doing in a place like that?”

I muttered under my breath, eyes flicking toward the big, sleek fridge like it might answer me. Two men. Both dangerous. Both quiet in different ways. And neither of them acting like normal employers. I mean — who pays ten grand in one go just for cooking pasta and cutting vegetables? I shook my head, chewing my bottom lip. And then there was the other thing. Domenico. Always in those dark, expensive shades, even inside the house where the light was soft and golden. Who does that? Movie stars? Maybe. Men with secrets? Definitely. And the way he moved…

I suspect she's opting for in-home professional treatment rather than hospitalization, given the severity of her condition. I locate Dad in his study, where he often seeks refuge to work. Upon my entry, Dad looks up, visibly absorbed in thought. He startles at the sound of the creaking door, removes his glasses, and meticulously polishes them with his handkerchief before replacing them and regaining his composure. "Hermione," he says.

I held the fang, my finger tracing the runes carved into it. It was heavy as it carried a lot of history, promises… And now, a deceptive eternity. "Your Highness." A charming voice greeted Daniel respectfully, and we turned to find an Omega standing under the shade of the doorway, holding a map. "Here are the charts of the Rogue movements near the northern border. The generals are already waiting in the antechamber." If I recalled correctly, the Omega's name was Anna—Lulu had told me about her. Daniel frowned ever so slightly, but that reaction was gone in a flash.

Helena moved beside her quietly as she also scrubbed her hands. “You’re thinking too much.” She pointed out. Althea exhaled slowly beneath the surgical mask. “I know.” She whispered back. “Dominic is going underground right now, descending toward the Axis Gate. Toward Luca or toward something ancient and deadly beneath and I hate myself for not being there.” “I understand that.” Helena said firmly. “But, now, you need to focus, Althea.”

Luca’s POV The woods were a labyrinth of shadows and gunfire echoes as Dante half-carried, half-dragged me through the underbrush, his arm locked around my waist like he feared I’d vanish if he let go. Chen’s tac team had scattered—some dead, some fleeing—and Sofia’s KGB remnants were closing in, black vans cutting off escape routes. The drone overhead blinked red, Enzo’s final countdown ticking down: Eclipse in T-minus fifteen. Codes live. Dante’s breath was hot against my ear. “We need cover. Now.”

But Harvey has to tell me something. The chaperone helped us carry the boxes and luggage inside the building. Stairs after stairs, and we finally reached our apartment door. Under the peephole was a name etched on a wooden frame. Crescent I, it read. That was the name of our pack, followed by a Roman numeral.

They were looking at the dome with yellowed, silver-burned eyes, their instincts telling them that the sanctuary was a lie. Outside, the Phantom stopped sobbing. She looked directly into the nearest security camera, her silver-gray eyes void of all humanity. She raised a hand, her fingers pointing toward the western pylon—the exact spot where the dome’s frequency was weakest. "The anchor is cracked," the Phantom whispered, her voice carrying the subsonic growl of the High Council. "Now... open the door for the remainder." A massive, rhythmic thumping hit the dome. Not the rain. Not the drills.