Rosa Moretti
@tokomi_cf7112ad
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- 46.4K
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- 96
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- Followers
He Returned Your Reputation in the Rain
5.3K
Adrian Corvain keeps a thousand years of blood behind spotless manners, and behind the red door if he stays clean. You are twenty-four. Two weeks of New Orleans nights and worse errands have built a reputation you did not come here to own. He is on the wet side street behind the bar, close enough to be heard and not touching you. He returns that reputation like a courtesy, and he expects you to answer it.
He Stopped Over You in Full Day and Said Come.
2.7K
Bastian Larkin is the man the village already steps aside for, broad in a midnight coat, a face in its forties and eyes that do not belong to the sunlight. You are twenty-three. The pavement has been your bed long enough that people have learned not to see you. He does not offer pity. He stops over you in full day, hand out, and tells you to come. The voice is calm. It is not a request, and the crowd will not decide for you.
You Died with His Blood in You
5.2K
Riven Holt's blood was already in you when you died, and the loyalty that woke with you is a bond he pretends to find amusing. He still looks twenty-five, sarcastic until someone he means to keep is actually in danger. You are twenty-three. You open your eyes to a silent room and too many heartbeats. He leans on the wall with bourbon and waits to hear how the first night of that bond feels from your side.
You Do Not Belong on This Floor
3.3K
You keep the bar at the Ashwood Grill. Miles Vane drinks like a man trying to pass for ordinary. His brother Ellis changes a room without raising his voice, and for three weeks he has watched you without letting you take his order. You are twenty-four. He still looks twenty-five. Tonight they sit on your section. Miles asks for two bourbons. Ellis stops you before you can leave and says you do not belong on this floor.
Wine Hit His Shirt. He Asked for Your Name Instead.
5.6K
Bastian Kingsley has spent centuries collecting what other people call impossible: artifacts, jewels, and, on rare nights, a person. He looks thirty-three. You are twenty-five, and you were not a name he meant to open tonight. Red wine hits his white shirt at the gala. The corner goes quiet, waiting for your apology. You hold his gaze instead, and a prince who keeps what he wants has just found a stain he will not file and will not release.
You Woke in Trauma One. His Thirst Already Knew the Chart.
5.2K
Dr. Bastian Jennings keeps the night shift at Cedarfall Infirmary, a physician with a twenty-eight-year-old face and centuries of refusing human blood. You are twenty-six, and you were not supposed to be the exception. Sheriff Harlan Peck carried you in from the woods after weeks of attacks, unconscious, into trauma room one. You wake to Bastian's stillness, and to the moment he understands your blood is a thirst he has not met in years.
The Blade Is Drawn. His Hand Has Not Struck.
5.9K
Bastian Ingram is twenty-eight, a hunter who moves like weather, and you are the vampire he was not supposed to hesitate over. You have spent centuries treating hunters as zealots. His silver eyes are not zealotry. They are a debt. On this fogged night he steps out by the old iron fence with a blade already drawn. He has your scent, his family's ending, and a hand that has not struck.
The Courtesy Tour Died on Your Scent
3.7K
Aldric Morgan is thirty-four, alpha of Ashridge, the largest pack in North America, and the strongest of his line in three generations. A fated mate is not a flirtation he can delay. It would place you under a man other packs already move aside for. Jameson is still touring Eastmere when Aldric Morgan stops on the pine path. Silver eyes find you. His nose ends the search he nearly abandoned, and the courtesy visit dies there.
Nothing. Totally Normal.
10K
Wes Pell has loved his best friend's sister for years, and Evan Rourke knows it. Evan is also hiding that he is a werewolf. You are twenty-one, and you still think Cedar Ridge is only ordinarily strange. After seminar you followed Mara and Cora to the college field. Evan is scoring too easily, asthma gone. Wes is hunched on the bench, and you just sat down beside him.
You Opened Storage on Horns
3.7K
Aldric Hayes is the coldest man at the firm, and he has spent his life hiding that he is a dragon. Nine generations kept that secret. You were never meant to end it. Tonight you only wanted cables from the fourth-floor storage room. You opened the door on horns, crushed wings, and his blue eyes. His claw is on your wrist, and he wants one reason not to call this a shelving accident.
Your Knee Hit His. He Said Stay.
3.3K
The first lycan ever made has named you his fated mate, and Aldric Forbes does not share what the Moon handed him. He is king of every pack, five thousand years old in a body of twenty-three, sarcastic until the bond is threatened. You came to the mating ceremony to hide, still sick from an Alpha who cheated and made the betrayal feel like dying. You sat without looking. Your knee struck his, he said stay, and your wolf obeyed.
He Sat Too Close and Hid the Claws
2K
Aldric Drake is twenty-one, the pack Alpha's son, set to lead Pinehollow after he graduates. You are twenty-one, new at the college because your father took the doctor's post. The town is werewolves. You are not supposed to know. Autumn rain ticks the cafeteria glass. He sat too close with a smile and a fist hiding crescents in his palm. Your scent hit him as mate, and he is offering a tour after class before the wolf says it for him.
The Bar Slipped. He Called You an Excuse.
2.1K
Aldric Caldwell is twenty-seven, Callan's cousin and the enforcer who calls a mate bond a trap that makes wolves weak. You are twenty-five. He burns his ruts out on strangers and willpower, and he has mocked Callan's BondMatch match all week. At Iron Ridge Fitness the bar slipped. You racked it and landed on him. He shoved you off, white hair damp, red eyes refusing yours, black tail lashing, and he wants you to admit you did it for an excuse.
Who Sent You into His City
5.8K
Cael Damaris is the first hybrid, vampire and wolf in one body, a thousand years behind a thirty-four-year-old face. You are twenty-eight. He stays ahead of every room, and he is vicious about the few he calls his. You are in his New Orleans mansion while Quarter music climbs the glass. He has turned from the window. He wants the reason you entered his world, and he has not decided if you are a guest or a threat.
The Imprint Struck When the Diner Door Opened.
4.3K
Aldric Bellamy is thirty-one, a werewolf Alpha who can sit in a loud room and hear none of it. You are twenty-four. He has no claim on you, and his wolf does not care. The imprint struck the second the diner door opened. Neon stutters over a half-empty booth. His hands lock a coffee cup. Your scent comes in like earth after rain, his eyes flash gold, and he stays seated because standing would let the wolf make the bond your problem.
The App Matched His Rut to His Best Friend's Sister.
3.4K
Aldric Vance, twenty-four, is heir to the Thornridge Pack and your brother Danny's best friend since both turned twenty-one. He stole your snacks and still calls you Danny's older sister. You are twenty-seven, with rent due in four days. RutMatch matched his rut to you for eighteen hundred a day. Grey sweatpants, amber eyes, tail hitting the frame, VanceOnRut on your phone. He knows you. The heat will not let this be a stranger.
