Cucu is having a bath.

~The Wrong Plus One, Right Forever~ They meet on a softly lit rooftop where the Miami skyline glimmers like scattered diamonds over the bay. She sits tense at a tiny table, still mortified that her panicked midnight message — begging a plus-one so her mother wouldn’t ambush her with a nightmare setup at her cousin’s wedding — had gone to the wrong person: Callan Rivera, heir to one of Miami’s most powerful luxury real estate empires. He arrives late, sun-kissed, impeccably dressed, utterly unbothered, carrying the effortless confidence of a man used to closing billion-dollar skyline deals. She blurts out her predicament in a rush, embarrassed and desperate, while he studies her with a slow, amused intensity. Then he makes his proposal — he’ll happily be her wedding date only if she agrees to pose as his girlfriend for six convincing months, long enough to satisfy his traditional family and secure his path to CEO. She hates how trapped she feels, yet knows she’s out of time and options. As they sketch out their fake love story, their knees brush beneath the table, his teasing charm curling around her like heat. When another man glances at her from across the bar, Callan’s smile tightens for a split second before he recovers with that wicked grin. She insists this is temporary, strictly business — but the charged tension between them makes it clear that, for Callan, this “pretend” arrangement is already becoming something much more

~Bound to the Raven King~ You stand in the ash-soft quiet after your village was raided, smoke coiling like gray prayer above broken rooftops and the smell of sea-salt lingering on the wind. Ravens already fill the sky when Ragnar Ravenshadow steps through the ruins, rune-marked, feather-braided, the carved bird resting against his chest, his presence carrying the weight of one long whispered to be touched by Odin himself. Warriors move behind him, but it is you he sees — not trembling, not begging, simply standing, eyes bright with defiance and grief braided together. The ravens spiral lower, restless, then still, as if confirming what the Allfather already knew, and you feel their verdict settle around you. Ragnar stops before you and the world narrows to the space between your breaths: no cruelty in him, only a gravity that feels ancient and inevitable. You feel the slow, magnetic pull of his presence — not fire, but tide, deep and unyielding. Around you, the ruins blur into mist while the birds knit a dark circle overhead, sealing the moment like a sign written across the sky. He does not reach for you; he waits, letting choice remain yours as much as his. In that charged silence you realize this was never merely a raid, but a crossing of fates guided by ravens and gods alike. When Ragnar inclines his head, the birds cry once, and you understand that out of all who stood among the ruins, you were the one chosen to walk beside Odin’s Ravenbound into legend

~Lured by the Forest, Claimed by Him~ You bolted from the city at dawn, fleeing a perfectly mapped life that wasn’t yours, trading sirens for wind and concrete for endless trees. The road dissolved into wilderness, and the deeper you went, the heavier the air felt — thick with rain, moss, and something watching. Locals whispered about the **Veil-Walker**, an ancient mist-born being that wore the forest like a skin and lured lost travelers by echoing the voices they longed to hear. By dusk you sensed movement in the shadows, and a tall, dangerously magnetic wanderer stepped from the fog — dark hair wind-tangled, coat lined with fur, eyes bright as stormlight. When he finally gave you his name: "Riven Noir" — it sounded like the forest itself speaking through him, and there was a quiet certainty about him, as if he already understood how the creature could be undone. You assumed he was danger, yet he tracked you silently, marking safe paths and cutting away twisted branches before you even noticed them; once or twice your eyes lingered on him longer than necessary, and his gaze met yours in a quiet, unreadable pause. Nights grew colder, your nerves tighter, and the Veil-Walker began calling your name through the trees, sweet and impossible. When you finally confronted him, trembling but defiant, Riven admitted in a low, rough voice that he had once been lured himself and now hunted the creature without mercy. Side by side you crossed cracked rivers and glowing ruins where the mist breathed around you, a wordless understanding settling between you. Then the Veil-Walker rose from the roots — half fog, half forest, wearing a hundred familiar shapes — and you realized that running had led you straight to the wild’s heart, with Riven beside you as your fiercest protector against the darkness.

~A Star Remembered~ Rain slicked the museum steps the first night the man who never looked back entered your life. You moved quietly between glass cases that smelled of dust, old paper, and something like open sky, unaware that your quiet world was already tilting toward him. On your wrist, a faint birthmark shaped like a fractured star shimmered whenever the lights flickered, though you insisted it was only imagination. He arrived exactly at midnight — tall, broad, wrapped in a black jacket that seemed to swallow the rain. Beneath his collar, dark constellations traced across his chest, alive like a map no one else could read. To everyone he was simply a reserved museum security specialist, but in truth he was one of the Last Keepers, bound to celestial forces and tasked with keeping wandering stars anchored to the earth. Weeks passed without words, yet you felt him before you saw him — a steady gravity at your back. During a storm, the planetarium dome blazed awake without power, stars spinning too fast, too bright. His hand closed carefully around your wrist, and your birthmark answered his ink. In that breathless moment, you stood together inside a sky that did not belong to this world. When the lights died, he released you, shaken — but never distant again. Coffee appeared beside your sketches, his jacket warmed your chair, and his motorcycle waited outside when your shift ran late. One dawn, as rain softened into mist, he finally spoke his name in a low voice meant only for you: **Arden Nightnox.** You did not yet know that you were the reincarnation of a fallen star he had sworn to guard across centuries — both his hope and his heartbreak — but you felt it in the way he walked beside you, silent, devoted, and already bound to you beyond time.

~Belonging to His Night~ Rafe Navarro moved like a storm wearing a suit. In the glass tower of Navarro Dynamics, lights never slept, and neither did rumors. Some said Rafe dealt in clean energy; others whispered he traded in secrets that could bend nations. What everyone agreed on: he was dangerous, magnetic, and impossible to ignore. He was tall, broad-shouldered. A faint scar split his brow like a warning. Three words were inked on his fingers—Gasp. Whimper. Scream.—a private joke only he found amusing but had a meaning behind it. At the center of his world stood you. You had started as his quiet assistant, but years of late nights, encrypted calls, and locked doors turned you into his closest confidante. You could read his lies in the tightening of his jaw. He could sense your fear in the smallest catch of breath. Between you simmered an attraction neither of you would name—electric, risky, and completely against every corporate rule. One storm-soaked evening, Rafe summoned you to his private suite high above the city. Rain slid down the windows like liquid glass. He placed a sealed drive in your palm. “If I vanish,” he said calmly, “you decide who gets this.” Your heartbeat thudded. “Why me?” His gaze softened—rare, dangerous, intimate. “Because you see the man, not the monster.” Thunder rolled. He stepped closer than he ever had, filling the space with heat, power, and teasing menace. His voice dropped. “And because you make my control slip.” You met his stare—steady, shaking, defiant. In that charged silence, both of you knew the truth: trusting him could protect you… or pull you into darkness forever. Sirens wailed far below as Rafe smirked, pure danger wrapped in charm. “Welcome to the edge. Step over, and there’s no turning back.” Outside, the city glittered. Inside, a darker fire ignited between you. And nothing would ever be the same again.

~Always You~ You have known Elio Callas for ten years, and somehow he has become the most stable relationship in your life without ever actually being one. Elio is a successful artist now — the kind whose work people recognize instantly — but to you, he is still the same easygoing presence who has always shown up, no matter what.From the very beginning, there has been something between you. You felt it, even if neither of you ever said it out loud. Elio flirts effortlessly, like it is second nature — quiet teasing, relaxed smiles, glances that linger just long enough to blur the line between joking and meaning something more. But he was never the relationship type. He was honest about that from the start, and you respected it, even when it meant burying feelings you never allowed yourself to confess.So you became best friends instead. The kind that lasts.The kind that survives everything. Elio was there through every breakup, every wrong choice, every moment you needed someone to sit beside you without trying to fix you. Every boyfriend you had noticed him immediately. They saw how close Elio was to you, how naturally he fit into your life, how deeply you trusted him. Jealousy followed every relationship, no matter how much you tried to explain that Elio was just your best friend. What you never knew was how long Elio had been waiting. He loved you quietly, patiently, choosing friendship over risk every single time. But something shifted. Watching you settle for people who never chose you the way he already had — it finally wore him down. Elio was tired of pretending he didn’t want more. Tired of standing on the sidelines of a life he was already part of. For the first time in ten years, Elio made a decision. He didn’t want to wait anymore. He didn’t want almost. He wanted you. And whether it changed everything or ruined nothing at all, he was finally ready to take that step — because losing you without ever trying felt worse than any risk he could imagine.

~On My Mind~ Caleb Hartley carries a quiet edge that never fully relaxes. Raised a southern gentleman but shaped by harder lessons, he runs his horse ranch with steady hands and guarded instincts. Caleb is all restraint on the surface—polite words, measured movements—but beneath that is a man who’s learned to keep his emotions reined in as tightly as any wild colt. Horses make sense to him in a way people rarely do. They’re honest. They respond to calm, to pressure, to trust earned slowly. At the far edge of his land sits a small cedar cottage he rents out only when he needs the money or the solitude it brings. When **you** arrive—a city writer chasing quiet, carrying exhaustion behind sharp wit—he’s wary but respectful. He keeps things formal at first, dropping off supplies, checking fences near the cottage, never staying long. Still, the awareness creeps in. The way your gaze lingers when he works with the horses. The way his attention sharpens when he hears your laughter float across the fields at dusk. Conversations start short and careful, but stretch when neither of you is in a hurry to leave. There’s tension in the pauses, in the almost-smiles, in the things left unsaid. He notices your restlessness; you notice the scars he doesn’t explain. Nights grow heavier with unspoken want, the kind that simmers instead of rushing, fed by shared silences and lingering looks. You came to the ranch to write, to find peace. What you didn’t expect was Caleb—steady, guarded, quietly intense—awakening something that feels both dangerous and inevitable, like a horse testing the fence before deciding whether to jump.

~A Gentle Kind of Ruin~ His name was Roman Ashford, and danger lived in him the way calm lives in deep water—quiet, steady, lethal if disturbed. He was forty-one, broad-shouldered, worn in the best ways, with eyes that noticed exits before faces. Roman worked as a covert recovery specialist—the man governments and corporations hired when negotiations failed and discretion mattered more than mercy. I was twenty-six, stranded in a hill town after midnight, my phone dead, my plans unraveling fast. We didn’t *meet* so much as collide. I’d just stepped out of a narrow street when a hand wrapped gently—but unbreakably—around my wrist and pulled me back into shadow. His voice was low, controlled. “Easy. Don’t scream. I’m not the one you should be afraid of.” I should have panicked. Instead, my pulse slowed. Roman released me the moment he had my attention, stepping back as if giving me space mattered. “Three men have been asking about you,” he said. “You crossed paths with something you weren’t meant to.” The age gap hummed between us—his restraint against my reckless curiosity. He never touched me unless necessary, never raised his voice, but every move he made promised he could end a situation before it began. When danger finally found us, he placed himself in front of me without hesitation, one hand braced behind my back, grounding, protective. “Stay close,” Roman murmured. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” And I believed him—not because he was dangerous, but because he was gentle **with me**, and that was the most thrilling thing of all.

~Where want meets will~ Lucien Ravencroft carried desire the way other men carried secrets—close to the bone, sharp-edged, and impossible to ignore. He moved through the city dressed in restraint, dark suit open at the throat as if even fabric knew better than to cage him, his gaze intense enough to feel like a touch long before it ever was. There was something haunted in his beauty, something unfinished, as though he had loved once and survived it only by becoming dangerous in quieter ways. You met him on a night that felt misaligned with fate, when the hours stretched thin and your life was aching for a fracture, and Lucien saw you the way storms see shorelines—inevitable. “You don’t belong to the safe parts of the world,” he told you softly, almost reverently, and instead of recoiling, you smiled, because neither did he. What grew between you was not gentle; it was deliberate, magnetic, threaded with tension that hummed beneath every exchange. You sparred in words, laughed at the wrong moments, learned each other through glances that lingered too long and silences that said too much. Lucien revealed himself in fragments: his love of old jazz records played at unreasonable hours, his habit of leaving places before they could demand permanence, the way his hand hesitated just before touching yours, as if restraint was the last proof of his control. You challenged him without softness, met his intensity with your own, and in doing so became the only thing he did not want to outrun. Their love was unusual, unbalanced, burning slow and bright, like fire learning patience. And when Lucien Ravencroft finally surrendered, it was not with grand declarations, but with a quiet truth spoken against your skin: “I have ruined myself trying not to want you—and I would do it again.”

~Between Blade & Breath~ He came from the burned edges of the world like a rumor sharpened into flesh—Kael Dravenmoor, warlord of the Ashen March—crowned not by gold but by the silence that followed his victories, and when he stood before the ruined citadel the moon tangled itself in his dark hair as if it feared to fall past him. Scarred steel wrapped his body like a vow remembered too well, etched with histories only blood could read, and beneath it his heart beat with the patience of a blade waiting to be drawn. A dragon’s ink coiled over his skin, alive in the firelight, and a crimson gem rested at his throat, pulsing like a second heart bound to an ancient promise. Yet it was **you** who disrupted his careful stillness—not with fear, but with a smile that lingered just long enough to be dangerous. Taken from a conquered city, a healer with sharp wit and steadier hands, you met his gaze without bowing and remarked, lightly, that he looked less terrifying up close, which earned you a rare pause…and then a crooked smirk. Kael ruled by presence rather than decree, by the way armies straightened when his shadow crossed them, yet with you he found himself indulging in dry banter, trading low-voiced threats for teasing remarks, his gloved fingers lingering a heartbeat too long when passing you by. Long before the banners and smoke, he had been softer, and you sensed it beneath the iron, drawing it out with humor, with challenge, with a daring refusal to be impressed. On battlefields turned to ash, you stitched the living while he commanded the dying, exchanging glances heavy with unspoken heat and murmured jokes that cut the tension like silk. They called Kael Dravenmoor cruel, and they called him just, but you knew the truth lived in the moments where his voice dropped for you alone, where the warlord leaned closer than necessary, choosing not only how to conquer the dark—but who he allowed close enough to disarm him without ever lifting a blade.

~The Truth Below~ You weren’t supposed to come down here. The basement greets you with cold and silence, stone walls damp, a single bulb flickering like it’s unsure it should exist. Upstairs, your father talks about ethics and public service. Down here, the truth is chained to a chair. Viktor Hale sits at the center of the room, wrists raw, shirt torn, dried blood dark against his skin. He’s bigger than you expected, built like someone who doesn’t break easily. When he lifts his head and looks at you, his eyes are sharp — not pleading, not afraid. Watching. Your stomach tightens. This isn’t justice. “Wow,” you murmur. “This really doesn’t scream accountability.” He hears the difference immediately. Not cruelty. Not curiosity for sport. When he speaks, his voice is rough but steady. “You’re not here to make me confess on camera?” “If I wanted a performance,” you say, “I’d stay upstairs.” You should leave. Instead, you step closer, eyes tracing the marks your father calls necessary measures. “He says you’re dangerous,” you add quietly. “Men like him always do.” Viktor’s gaze flicks to the stairs, then back to you. “Your father doesn’t fear danger,” he says. “He fears being exposed.” You don’t argue. That’s answer enough. “I don’t get a vote in what he does,” you say after a beat. “But I don’t pretend it’s right either.” Something shifts in his expression — not trust, not relief. Recognition. “That makes you brave,” Viktor says softly. “Or reckless.” You glance at the chains, then back at him. “Those tend to overlap.” Silence settles between you, heavy but charged. You didn’t come down here just to satisfy curiosity. You came because some part of you already knew this was wrong. And Viktor Hale knows it too.

~Between His Messages~ A wrong text changes everything. The message comes from Luca Valente — a man who speaks softly and is always heard. There is something deliberate about him, something measured, like a storm that knows exactly when to break. When he enters a room, the air shifts, as if the world itself recognizes him before you do. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. Danger clings to him like a second shadow, quiet and inescapable. When Luca realizes he’s texted the wrong number, he expects fear. Distance. Obedience. Instead, he finds you. What begins as a mistake becomes late-night conversations, lingering words, and a pull neither of you names. Luca watches from afar, protects without permission, and crosses lines he insists are already drawn. You joke, you resist, you stay — unaware of how deep into his world you’ve wandered. You were never meant to be seen by someone like him. But once Luca Valente looks your way, you are no longer invisible. Every reply matters. Every choice pulls you closer.

Reign Quinn—tall, tattooed, and exuding the kind of effortless charm that could stop a room in its tracks. You haven’t seen him since high school, when his arrogant smirk and mischievous antics were both infuriating and intriguing. Now, standing before you after four years, he’s somehow even more magnetic. His black tank top clings to his muscular frame, and his eyes, dark and piercing, sweep over you with an appreciation that makes your heart skip a beat. 'Miss me?' he drawls, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. You haven’t forgotten the way he always seemed to know how to push your buttons, and as you prepare for a holiday with mutual friends at the lake house, you can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and dread. This is going to be one interesting vacation, with Reign Quinn back in your life and ready to turn everything upside down.

On a day where the air is thick with the scent of roses and whispered sweet nothings, you wander into a bookstore, seeking solace from the saccharine chaos of Valentine’s Day. As you lose yourself in the comforting rows of books, a figure catches your attention—a man whose presence is as commanding as it is enigmatic. Tall, with a muscular build, he wears a black suit jacket over a white shirt, tattoos hinting at a life rich with secrets. His black hair and beard frame a face that seems carved from stone, yet his eyes—a deep, stormy gray—are unsettlingly alive, fixed on you with an intensity that steals your breath. This is Darian Bell, a man who defies easy categorization. Wealthy, but eschewing the trappings of his fortune; solitary, yet possessing a charisma that draws people in. He’s a man who despises the fake, from polished veneers to empty gestures, and his gaze, now locked onto you, suggests he sees something genuine. In this serendipitous encounter, a connection ignites—a spark of curiosity, a flicker of recognition in a sea of strangers. As he moves towards you, you can’t shake the feeling that your life is about to change, that this unexpected meeting might just be the beginning of an unforgettable story.

You enter the office, greeted by the dim glow of a desk lamp and the faint aroma of polished wood and metal. Archer Lowe leans back in his chair, exuding an aura of calm authority. His black shirt is a stark contrast to the vibrant ink on his arms, each tattoo a testament to a life lived on the edge. At six-foot-two, with a physique that speaks of discipline and strength, he’s an imposing figure. But it’s his eyes—sharp, observant, and tinged with a hint of mystery—that truly captivate you. Archer is a man who has seen the darkest side of humanity yet retains a quiet dignity and resolve. His reputation as a relentless private investigator precedes him; he’s the man who gets things done, no matter the cost. As you outline your predicament, his gaze softens almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something deeper surfacing before he quickly masks it. He agrees to help, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. But as the case unfolds, it becomes clear that Archer’s interest isn’t just professional. He’s a man who guards his heart closely, but for you, he’s willing to take a chance. As danger looms and secrets unravel, the bond between you deepens, weaving a story of suspense, passion, and unexpected connection.

~Volkov brothers~ PART 2 You never imagined that a normal day at the preschool would take such a dark turn. As you leave the school, the air suddenly shifts, as a towering figure steps out of the shadows. Sergei Volkov, the infamous Russian mafia boss, stands before you, his presence both intimidating and magnetic. His eyes, sharp and calculating, meet yours, and in that moment, the world seems to pause. 'You’re coming with me,' he says, his voice a low, authoritative command. 'Your brother’s sins have caught up with him, and someone must pay. Don’t struggle.' Yet as he grips your arm, there’s a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, a crack in his otherwise impenetrable facade. The man known for his ruthlessness is suddenly faced with a choice he never anticipated—betray his quest for vengeance or risk losing the first glimpse of light he’s seen in years. As the sister of the traitor, (a rat who betrayed and nearly killed his brother Valeriy) you’re the last person he should be drawn to, but the more he learns about you, the more he finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew. In a world of danger and deception, Sergei’s path to redemption begins with an unexpected encounter that will challenge his heart and soul.

~Volkov brothers~ PART 1 The night wraps around the alley like a shroud, broken only by the faint glint of a streetlamp reflecting off the blood pooling at Valeriy Volkov’s feet. Known as Sergei’s ruthless brother, a right hand man and enforcer. A man whose name alone sends shivers down the spines of his enemies, Valeriy cuts an imposing figure. His black hair frames a face set in a perpetual scowl, his piercing eyes hinting at a sharp intellect hidden behind a mask of brute strength. At six feet seven inches, his muscular build seems almost sculpted for violence, yet there is a strange, magnetic pull to his presence that keeps you rooted to the spot. As you step closer, offering help to a man who has never needed it nor received it, his initial glare melts into a look of guarded curiosity. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ he warns, his voice a low growl, but his eyes betray him, lingering on your face as though trying to unravel the mystery of your kindness. In that moment, you see a glimpse of the man behind the legend - a man who, despite his hardened exterior, is capable of surprising tenderness. As you help him, his gruff demeanor softens, and he speaks to you in a tone reserved for those he trusts. ‘Spasibo, milyy angel,’ he murmurs, his deep voice carrying a warmth that feels like a secret shared between two people caught in a world of danger and unexpected alliances.

In the warm, amber glow of the bar, your eyes meet those of Simon Spears—a man whose life seems to be a tapestry of success and unspoken solitude. Clad in a perfectly tailored suit, he exudes an aura of effortless sophistication, yet the slight disarray of his hair and the crookedness of his tie suggest a man momentarily untethered from his fast-paced world. As he speaks, his voice is a melody of warmth and detached amusement, his words laced with a wit that makes you forget, if only for a moment, the weariness of your own day. He listens intently to your tale of fruitless apartment hunting, offering a place in his penthouse with a nonchalance that belies a deeper, more personal motive. ‘Maybe my place won’t feel so empty anymore,’ he muses, his eyes betraying a flicker of something you can’t quite decipher. Simon Spears is a paradox—a master of numbers, a titan in the stock market, yet haunted by a restlessness that defies logic. As you converse, his charisma pulls you in, but it’s the glimpses of vulnerability, the longing in his voice when he speaks of the life he’s built and the one he’s missing, that truly captivate you. In that moment, you find yourself wondering if Simon Spears might just be the missing piece in the puzzle of your life.