Untouched Novel Harper Novels & Stories

I was sure that unveiling the years of lies would break us, regardless; it was cleaner this way, simpler. As the kettle boiled, he plucked at the threading hem of his jumper. Though it was clearly old and well-worn, it wasn’t one that I’d seen before. I wondered if he’d been shopping, and the physical proof, if it was that, that he’d begun to move on with his life shocked me. Just as I had, Harper had a life that was utterly, entirely his own. Though I doubted his spare time was filled with monster hunting, here I had evidence that he could move on without me. Though it should have filled me with joy and dulled my guilt, it choked me and squeezed my uneasy heart.

What if the crash of their built world was the anarchy required from which Jonah, phoenix-like, would emerge unencumbered of boards, donors, or a functional partner who questioned his approach? The fakes, the news report, the public humiliation—all of it looked too large, too elaborate, to be Harper's doing. It looked like something that would be more in Jonah's style: big, ruthless, multi-dimensional. Harper was a knife in the dark, but this looked like an earthquake. And Jonah was a student of primitive forces.

She blinked snowflakes off her lashes, “Even if I give up on me?” I didn’t answer. I just reached out and took her hand. Her fingers trembled, calloused from training, nails bitten short. She didn’t pull away. Eventually, we made our way back inside. The house was quieter than usual. Harper was in the corner, bent over a table strewn with rune-etched parchment. Her fingers moved quickly, tracing a protective symbol in red ink. The candles around her flickered unnaturally—swaying with no wind. “How is she?” Harper asked without looking up.

Waiting. Something in her stomach dropped. She unfolded it. And froze. DANTE NAVARRO FREED AFTER FIVE YEARS BEHIND BARS. Her vision blurred. “No,” she whispered. “No… no…” The room tilted. The man from the bar. The way he had looked at her. The word counselor. The calm. The control. Her breath turned shallow. A voice sounded behind her. Low. Familiar. “Morning.” She turned. He stood in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, expression calm—almost amused.

Slowly, they packed the unfilled grave. The old man held his hands to his back. Stared at the freshly dug soils. All these years, he lived behind the shadows of Nathalia. Hiding from the morbid influence of his kind. It's time to step out of the dark. To tell a story, Lucifer: Untold. *** WASHINGTON D.C. FBI HEADQUARTERS

There was no safety, no safety at all while Vincent and Ivan were out there. We worked tirelessly to find Vincent, but we weren't even close. Then, after three days, we received an unwelcome visitor. Harper just showed up at the mansion and wanted to talk. I didn't want to engage with her because of how she had treated and humiliated me countless times, but I couldn't turn her away. I walked into the courtyard where she sat, staring into space, and I could barely recognize her. Her hair was cut short, and she looked pale—too pale—and a bit thin.

Martin booked the flight home on a Tuesday afternoon, one-way, no return ticket. The decision came quietly, without fanfare—sitting on the porch of the coastal cottage as the gray waves crashed below, the small notebook open on his lap, the last of Damien’s letters folded inside. He had read them all twice, then a third time, until the words felt like they were etched into his skin. The chain was gone from his neck, but the ghost-weight lingered, a constant ache that no amount of beach sprints or hill runs could erase. He stared at the horizon for a long time, the notebook page with his own single line—“I’m still here. Still breathing. Still yours—if you’ll wait”—staring back at him. Then he

I'm sorry. I was overthinking things. It won't happen again. My voice was barely a whisper. I'm sorry for interrupting your reading. I'll leave now. I practically stumbled out of the room. So mortified, I almost walked straight into the door frame on my way out. Adrian's POV. The front door clicked shut, and the penthouse was quiet again. The silence settling over everything like a heavy fog. I stared at the door for a long time. The book completely forgotten in my lap. Eventually, I closed it and tossed it onto the nightstand.

Ruiz and the medical professionals to guide Nysaa back to a place of stability and healing. In the quiet confines of Dr. Ruiz's home, a full 24 hours had passed, and Nysaa was finally stable. However, she remained unconscious, which meant they were back at the beginning of her treatment. Dr. Ruiz knew that helping Nysaa navigate her traumatic past would be a long and challenging journey, and this incident had made it even more apparent. Dr. Ruiz sat in her study, looking through the leather-bound books that she had discovered among Nysaa's belongings. They turned out to be journals, once owned by Nysaa's foster mother. As she flipped through the pages, she became increasingly absorbed in the

I won't allow her anymore to fool her. "Please don't do this to us." She begs again. "I've had enough Audrey." I spat over the phone. "Please. Don't do anything that'll hurt Hugo." I hang up. - - - END OF BOOK ONE. Author’s Note: Thank you for reading!