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Susan McCallie

  • Unlocked Chapters: 404
  • Novel Reviews: 2

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Updated
  • Author: Nyssa K
  • Status: Ongoing
  • Age Rating: 18+
  • 👁 15.3K
  • 9.6

“Whose touch made you cry for more tonight?” Lucien’s voice was a low snarl as he gripped my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Yours,” I whispered, my voice unsteady. “Alpha, please—” Silas’s hands tightened on my hips as he pulled me closer, his words rough against my spine. “Liar. She trembled for me.” “Should we make her prove it?” Claude murmured, his breath hot at my throat. “Let her beg until she remembers who she belongs to.” I was shaking, caught between them, their shadows and their heat pressing in from every side. All I could do was breathe, “Yes… don’t stop.” And they didn’t. Like they never could. Like I was theirs, all three of theirs. --- Lilith used to believe in loyalty. In love. In her pack. But everything was torn away. Her father—the late Beta of Fangspire—died. Her mother, broken with grief, drank wolfsbane and never woke up. And her boyfriend? He found his mate and left Lilith behind without a second glance. Wolfless and alone, with debts threatening to drown her, Lilith enters the Rite—a ritual where women offer themselves to the cursed Alphas in exchange for gold. Lucien. Silas. Claude. Three ruthless Alphas, cursed by the Moon Goddess. If they don’t mark their mate before twenty-six, their wolves will destroy them. Lilith was supposed to be a means to an end. But something shifted the moment they touched her. Now they want her—claimed, marked, worshipped. And the more they take, the more they crave. Three Alphas. One wolfless girl. No fate. Just obsession. And the more they taste her, The harder she is to let go.

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Book cover
  • 👁 41K
  • 9.0

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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