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  • Autor: Angela Shyna
  • Estado: Completado
  • Clasificación por edades: 18+
  • 👁 76.7K
  • 8.2

"You are completely mine Gracie, your tears, fears, I'm going to completely shatter you until you know nothing else but my name". I never knew how twisted he was until this moment..." I'm n...not yours" I stuttered. His gaze darkened and hardened at my words. "I dare you to say that again" he said taking a threatening step closer. I opened my mouth but no words came out. Next thing I was trapped between him and the wall, both my hands pinned above my head, my knees weakened by his domineering look. "You belong to me! your body and soul belong to me, I'll mark you again and again......" He whispered nibbling at my throat. How did I get into this? Was there no way out? He'd already broken me ,what else could he expect from a broken soul. This was the guy who took everything from me, my pride, my virginity, and even my soul. She's a quiet kind and warmhearted average nerd. Graciela's only wish was to graduate high school, go to college and get a good life and if she was ever so lucky - find love, but a certain someone seems to hate everything she stood for. Or does he? Hayden McAndrew Has been Graciela's tormentor for as long as she could remember but he left. Gracie made the mistake to think it was forever now he was back to make her life a living hell! They say a very thin line exists between love and hate, what if after the line all she found was a dark obsession that consumed her every being?

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Book cover
  • Autor: Jessica Hall
  • Estado: Completado
  • Clasificación por edades: 18+
  • 👁 42K
  • 8.8

When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories. At the time, I never gave them much thought. Thinking they were just that… stories. Growing up, I soon realized that they weren’t lofty fantasies and fairy tales but memories of her past, memories of our ancestors before our world turned to sh*t. You see, what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story becomes, there is always a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the Chosen One—the one who would save us all. When I was younger, I used to believe that what she said was true. Eventually, someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted—someone who could save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up and saw the world unfolding around me, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something in which we needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage ever since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories and used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now, though, I see it for what it really is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.

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