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Hortencia Arriaga

  • Unlocked Chapters: 88
  • Novel Reviews: 1

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  • 👁 19.2K
  • 7.3

“Don’t make me repeat myself twice, part those legs for me, Bunny.” His deep voice which always sends my brain reeling due to how silky it sounds, washed over me slowly as he murmured quietly against my throat. I tried to point out to him that there was no way I’d be able to do as told with his legs still pinning mine down, but the words died down in my throat when he s*ck*d the skin over my beating pulse into his mouth. “Go on. You want to be good for me, don’t you?” “I— I do.” I choked out, letting out a breathy whimper when he wrapped his free hand around my throat and squeezed on it a little. ——— Forced to marry the ruthless mafia lord, whom everyone was afraid of at the age of eighteen, Sofia had no other choice but to follow her father’s wishes like a dutiful daughter was supposed to. While Luca Ricci only took a wife, because he wasn’t getting any younger at the age of thirty-three. She was the angel to his demons, the light to his darkness, the innocence to his sins… He wanted to protect her, since the moment he locked eyes with hers on their wedding day and saw the amount of fright brewing in it. He wanted to make her good for him, to mark her as his; with his handprints on her *ss and his c*m dripping off her face. To own her completely, to wrap his hand around her throat and do so many sinful things to her body. But he was the mafia lord, and danger just seems to be lurking around him, wherever he goes, and in whatever he does. He must protect his wife at all costs.

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  • 👁 37.5K
  • 8.9

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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Heroes

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