Wuthering Heights Novels & Stories

Her whole body shook with rage. The big man backed up as she stormed towards the door, but halfway there, she stopped. She turned around slowly, her glowing red eyes locked on me. "What’s your fucking business with this book, huh?" she growled, every word dripping with raw hate. My mouth opened slightly. The words were stuck in my throat.

His face was dark, and stormy, his jaw clenched tight with rage. He stormed toward the house, each step fast and heavy, anger radiating off him like heat. Behind him, Sophia stepped out too, adjusting her bag and struggling to keep up. The moment Victor opened the door and entered the house, his eyes swept across the living room. His chest rose and fell rapidly. It was empty with no sign of her. He looked around again, as though expecting her to appear from behind the curtains or walk down the stairs. But the silence in the house was deafening.

“Remember that I am not the same person I was when you gang raped me. I am Violet now, the woman you bow to, the woman capable of resurrecting you, the white witch, as they call me. But let me assure you, they may call me the white witch, but I'm not that kind, so don't get on my nerves.” When she looked at him, she noticed the look in his eyes; it reminded her of what had happened thirteen years before. She could smell it, see it, and hear it. That's exactly how she was when he and his gang defiled her over and over until she was nothing more than a lump of human meat. “You can go back to work now; I have appointments to keep,” she said, dismissing him as well. She watched him walk away, an

My boots crunched over brittle twigs, none of them snapping underfoot—because the forest let me pass. That was the thing with cursed places. They always knew their own. I crouched low as the trees opened into a clearing—and I froze. The soil here was scorched, seared black like someone had poured acid over it. Bones jutted from the earth like broken spires. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Most of the larger ones were wolf. Some weren’t. In the center stood a single figure. Vyre. Her back was to me, long cloak trailing behind her like smoke. She was humming.

The city slept uneasily beneath a veil of mist, its skyline blurred like a lie told too often. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, Elara Thornfield watched the lights pulse, old, distant, obedient. The world always looked honest from this height. That was its greatest deception.

There was only the fire, the rhythm of destruction, the warm blood sliding down my back and pooling at the base of the post. I thought about my mother. She had died when I was six. I didn't remember much about her, just fragments, really. The smell of her fur when she was in wolf form. The sound of her laugh, deep and warm like summer thunder. The way she used to sing to me at night, old pack songs about the Moon Goddess and the heroes of old. The tenth lash landed. The eleventh. The twelfth. I stopped screaming. Not because it didn't hurt, it hurt, it hurt worse than anything I could have imagined. But because screaming took energy I didn't have, and because somewhere deep inside, something

"My father's final insurance policy." Uncertainty crossed Elisabeth's composed features. "The trust is a myth," she said, confidence dimming. "A story Carlos invented to keep potential usurpers in line." "Is it?" Alex reached into his jacket and withdrew his phone. "James, what's the authorization code for the Zurich account?" James's eyes met his brother's, decades of complexity passing between them. "Prometheus-Delta-317." Elisabeth's head snapped toward James. "What are you doing?"

The wind hovered against the towering mansion, rattling the windows as dark clouds gathered above Hollywood, the grand estate of the Earnshaw family . It was a dreary November afternoon and it was also winter time which made the sprawling house seem even more colder and suffocating. Inside the common room was a thirteen years old girl named Anna. She sat curled in a corner, her hand pressed against the armrest of an old leather couch. The book in her hand, a romance novel, was the only escape she had from the cold, suffocating reality of her existence . The warm cold glow of the atmosphere did little to ease the chill that had settled in her bones over the years. She had learne

"I need something to occupy my mind, not sedate it, little bird. Something dramatic, passionate, maybe a classic tragedy." ​We paused in front of a section devoted to foreign literature. ​"How about Wuthering Heights?" I suggested, pulling the dense volume from the shelf. "All-consuming passion, deep obsession, and tragic consequences. A perfect distraction." ​He took the book from my hand as his fingers brushed mine. A contact that lasted a mere second but felt like an electric jolt. I immediately hid my hand behind me. He weighed the book in his hand, not looking at the title but at me.

There were no traces of Arya here and no lingering presence of anyone from the Marlowe family. It was clean, new, stamped with my personal choices, and full of limitless future possibilities. Arya's car accident had been just that—an accident. It was a tragedy that shattered my life into pieces. Yet on top of those ruins, after experiencing betrayal, manipulation, abuse, and endless struggles, I had cleared away the rubble with my own hands and rebuilt my home. I had lost my marriage and seen people's true colors, but I had also reclaimed myself. My phone vibrated. A text from the bank reminded me that one of my low-risk investments started accruing interest today.