White Veil Novels & Stories

Former runway model and once married to a popular pop star, now chief communications and brand officer of the Hawthorne group and divorced. She was staring back at one of Penelope’s fashion and lifestyle idols. It reminded her that she needed to know why Penelope ran away. Clad in a sleek, caramel-colored leather trench coat held at the waist with a matching belt, Vanessa exuded effortless sophistication. The kind of woman that naturally intimidated Kallista. The coat parted slightly as she moved, revealing a fitted cream silk blouse tucked into high-waist tailored trousers in a rich espresso hue. The straight pleats and precise tailoring of the trousers emphasized her elegant frame.

A white scarf floated on the water. My pupils constricted. The white scarf was beautiful and saintly. It had delicate lace patterns and was adorned with thousands of tiny diamonds. It was like a million stars falling into a net. It was the veil that Delia had put on. “Yes, that's it, Delia, just come slowly.” Lancaster was beside himself with joy. He bent down to look at the white veil on the water, reaching out to grab it with longing and fear.

' I thought. We arrived in front of Niles's house. It was a large building, approximately three stories high. It was painted white and red, which were the colors of the Griffins. White symbolizes purity, while red represents their fierce, fiery anger. They had a garden surrounding their house, and from the front, you could see the orchard where Abby cultivates a variety of flowers and fruits.

His dark hair fell into his eyes, but the way he looked at me—like he could see straight through my skin—made my breath hitch. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said, stepping closer. “The Veil’s thin tonight.” “The what?” His jaw tightened. “You really don’t know.” It wasn’t a question. I crossed my arms. “Then maybe explain instead of speaking in creepy one-liners.” He hesitated, looking over his shoulder like he expected something to leap out of the shadows. “The Veil is what keeps… them out. It’s not supposed to show you things unless—” He stopped himself, eyes narrowing. “What did you see?”

“You’re fading” He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t waste your energy on me. Just tell me how we end this.” Tears filled her eyes. “There’s only one way.” He stared at her. “No.” “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.” “I can see it in your face.” She looked away. “The Veil was made from sacrifice. Only one soul can close it. That’s the law it was built on.” “Then it’ll be me,” he said immediately.

But their eyes followed me—six pairs, unblinking. One reached into her chest and pulled out a bundle of fabric, bloody and torn. She held it out to me. It was a wedding veil. Mine. Burned at the edges. Stained by something darker than ink. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t. “You still have time,” said a voice behind me. I turned. Vera Blackwell. Her face was older, but I recognized her from the portrait in the grand hallway. The only woman in the family who had vanished without a trace.

I asked. She turned slightly. “The veil,” I said, gesturing to my own face. “I thought that tradition had mostly died out across the packs.” She shrugged. “Some still practice.” “What are the central tenets?” I asked. “I’m curious.” A pause. Slightly longer than it should have been. “Prayer. Devotion to the Goddess.” She stopped, then continued, “the veil is a commitment. The removal of vanity before the divine.” “And the name?”

The mansion glittered, the air heavy with expensive perfume and the quiet menace of unseen security. ​Amara emerged from the South Wing, descending the grand staircase on Emiliano's arm. She was breathtaking. She wore a simple, white silk gown—a fabric chosen to emphasize the life she carried and to provide a stark contrast to the jewelry. ​The blood-red ruby necklace was a searing display of wealth and dominance. The heavy, fiery stones lay against her pale skin, a declaration that she was the lifeblood of the Valenti line. Her quiet serenity, combined with the brutal opulence, made her an untouchable figure of power.

But the true altar waited at the far end: a raised platform draped in black velvet, surrounded by seven robed figures—three men, four women—all naked beneath their open cloaks, bodies oiled and gleaming in the candlelight. At the center stood the Veiled One. Tall, broad-shouldered, face hidden behind a featureless black mask. Only the eyes were visible—golden, burning with an ancient hunger. Between his muscular thighs, his cock stood erect—thick, veined, already dripping with a shimmering violet fluid that caught the firelight. Liora’s breath caught in her throat. The circle began to chant—low, rhythmic, ancient words that vibrated through the stone floor and into her bones, resonating in h