When We Were Young Book Novels & Stories

Now she was five. She was so young when the first orphanage burned down. I looked at the storybook she was holding. It was about a princess kidnapped by a witch on her first birthday. I hesitated to take it. I’d been trying not to speak too much—if they heard my voice, they might recognize me. “Please, Mrs. Whitmore!” added Bea, who was eight. I exhaled deeply. When it came to them, I just couldn’t say no. I smiled, even though they couldn’t see it. I was about to take the storybook when someone else reached for it first.

They are my loyal friends I cherished with my life. It came to mind when we were lost when we went out to play outside our territory. Whose idea was that? Well, it seems to be mine again. Am I such a mischievous kid before? I thought I was a pretty decent and obedient kid. Well, we came to find a secluded cave somewhere and found an old tattered book with an ancient brotherhood ritual in it. With curiosity and for fun, I suggested we do the ritual. I grimaced, “I am such an instigator. I hope my kids in the future won’t be like me.”

I picked up my pen and, instead of writing a story about someone else, I wrote a single sentence on the back page of my notebook: We are exactly where we need to be. I closed the book, set it on the side table, and didn't look at it again. The story I was living was far better than anything I could ever hope to write. As the fire died down to a gentle, pulsing glow, I let myself drift into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first of many in a long, quiet winter. We were safe, we were together, and for the first time, we were finally, truly, our own.

It’s in the bond that made us Alpha and Luna, not by power — but by sacrifice. And when we step past the final tree, through the sun-dappled path and into our waiting pack, I know we are more than survivors. We are whole. We are one.

A book they'd read together, out loud, one chapter at a time. They crossed things off. The ugly beach. The lopsided bowls. The strange play. “We're doing it,” she said one night. “Doing what?” “Living. Not surviving. Not waiting. Living.” He kissed her. “Took us long enough.” “We had to learn.” “We learned.”

Everything had been cleaned so thoroughly that there wasn't a trace left of a child ever having lived here. My mind was on the edge of collapse. My nerves screamed, every sensation raw and disorienting. Lately, Chester had been busy and was always in the study late into the night. Our conversations had grown shorter and fewer. Even his attitude toward me had subtly changed. I knew it had to do with my "condition". He didn't want me disturbing him, so he kept me away from the study as much as possible. I respected that until… Meow… A soft, almost plaintive meow cut through the silence. It was Pudding, our five-year-old cat, the same age as Dorothy. We had gotten it the year she was born, and

It was survival—a vow. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her against him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down to her, closer, harder. The edge of the table pressed into her hips, the war maps crumpling beneath them. It was quick, desperate, both of them knowing the city was burning outside but needing this moment — this claim — before the next strike. When it broke, they stayed locked together, foreheads pressed, breaths ragged. Valentina whispered, “We’ll burn him together.”

all over again. Kitty gets it; she didn't want to be rude. Bianca Lewis was a 66-year-old senior citizen who had been a widow for thirty-six years. She was lonely. Kenneth was an only child, and he was everything to Bianca. Kitty knew the feeling since she never knew her father and mother died of cancer before moving to the city.

There are a lot of rumours surrounding the secrecy of their younger years but the most agreed upon was that it was for their own safety. Our story truly begins on the sixteenth birthday of the Le Minuit twin’s birthday. The book was without a doubt the strangest thing I had ever read. The first ten chapters had been written like a textbook, detailing facts and supposition, quoting references and other supporting materials. Then at chapter 11 it started to read like a novel, a bedtime story of two girls that were forced into a position of power before they were ready, only to discover that they wielded power even they did not fully comprehend.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All I Want Is You (The Youngers Book 3) Published by Blue Violet Press LLC Seattle, Washington Copyright © 2018 by Iris Morland Cover design by Resplendent Media All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief qu