2042 Book(s) Related to best christian novels of all time

My mate lost his memory and fell in love with another woman.

Alpha Killian Cross forgot our five-year bond after a rogue attack. Sandra, the Omega who saved him, became his new obsession. I fought to restore his memories—and succeeded.

But the day he remembered me was the day Sandra killed herself. Killian blamed me for her death and chose to hate me instead.

When rogues attacked our pack, he died taking a hit meant for me. His last words? "I wish you'd never made me remember. I wish you'd let me love her."

Now I'm back—reborn to the day I first found him with Sandra. This time, I won't fight for his memories. This time, I'll let him keep his happiness with her.

Even if it kills me all over again.

I am the pampered Princess of the Carpenter crime family, a girl whose three fiancés once leveled a city block just to retrieve her lost diamond.

But next to Avery—a battle-hardened medic who showed up with her kid and could dig out bullets without blinking—my "spoiled nature" suddenly became such an exhausting joke that Jackson and Rhys simply walked out on me.

Gabriel was the only one who didn't. He was my safe haven, kissing my forehead and promising, "They’re fools. They don't appreciate you."

I believed him. Until I looked out the window.

My proud, untouchable Gabriel was down on one knee in the dirt, humbly wiping the mud off Avery’s high heels.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw a fit. I just turned around, walked straight into my father's study, and looked the Godfather in the eye.

"Dad," I said. "That marriage alliance with the West Coast 'Butcher' family next month. I'll do it."

I'd been married to Nikolai Konstantin for three years. In that time, I'd miscarried six times for him—nearly died on the operating table once.

Every time I woke up, this cold-blooded mafia boss would hold my hand and say, "I'm sorry you had to go through this. Should we try again?"

I thought he loved me.

Until my seventh pregnancy, when I saw that video—

My sister Scarlett curled up in his arms, crying: "Nik, she's had six miscarriages... what if something happens to her? It's all my fault. My heart condition won't let me carry a baby..."

Nikolai kissed the top of her head: "Don't worry, baby. Her body can handle a few more tries. I promised you a child, and I always keep my promises."

That was when I finally understood—

The child in my womb had NEVER been ours.

A blizzard night. My car broke down in the middle of nowhere, and my legs had already lost all feeling.

With purple, cracked fingers, I dialed my fiancé, Silas.

Through the phone came the cozy crackle of a fireplace, and the sweet giggles of the fake heiress, Stella.

"Silas... save me... Route 82..." I gasped, my voice fading.

"Harper, this jealousy game makes me sick," he snapped. "Stella only sat in your passenger seat, and you play disappear? Go freeze to death out there. Don't bother us!"

Beep.

He hung up. Followed by a ruthless block.

He didn't know it wasn't a stunt for attention. It was my last SOS in this world.

When my body was dug out of the snowdrifts, frozen stiff along with the cheap engagement ring he bought on a whim, that arrogant man dropped to his knees on the icy morgue floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Too bad, I could never see it again.

They said I killed them all.

My father. My daughter. My brother's legs. One explosion, one moment of selfishness, and I became the family murderer.

My husband Dominic—the most feared mafia boss in the city—drowned himself in whiskey. I drowned myself in something worse.

Three years on the pole. Three years with strangers' cash stuffed in my bra, their cocks shoved down my throat, their fists in back alleys, their cameras catching every degradation. Three years swallowing cum and shame to scrape together half a million for my brother's surgery.

Then the doctors found the tumor. Three months left.

One last show, I told myself. A blindfolded performance. Enough to pay off Ethan's debt before I died.

That's when someone ripped off my blindfold.

Dominic.

Behind him stood my very-alive father. And Ethan—on two perfect legs, kicking aside an empty wheelchair. And my adopted sister Vanessa, draped over my husband, flashing a diamond ring.

This whole performance? Her birthday present.

"Surprise, sweetheart." Dominic smiled. "The explosion was fake. We just needed to put you in your place."

Ethan laughed. "Three years of stripper money made one hell of a party, sis."

My father still wouldn't look at me. "Learn to treat Vanessa right, or you're no daughter of mine."

The room exploded in laughter.

I stood there, diagnosis crumpled in my fist.

The explosion was fake. The crippled legs were fake. Everything was fake.

But the cancer eating my brain?

That was real.

I died watching my fiancé check another woman for scratches while three bullets tore through my chest.

I was his human shield. She was his true love.

Then, I blinked—and I was back. Reborn on the exact day I was supposed to sign our Mafia marriage pact.

Matteo slammed the sacred blood-oath on the desk. "Sign the damn paper, Serena. And stop being jealous of Anna. She’s fragile."

He wanted me to be his Donna. To run his casinos, bleach his dirty money, and take the bullets, while he played house with his sickly-sweet stepsister.

In my past life, I cried and signed my soul away.

This time? I smiled. I picked up the gold pen and signed the Bride line.

But I didn't write my name. I wrote Anna.

I tossed the contract at his chest, packed my bags, and walked out of the underworld forever.

Have a nice wedding, Matteo. Let's see how long your empire survives when your fragile little princess gets the throne.

In seven years of marriage, I miscarried five times. I nearly died on the operating table.

My husband, Lorenzo Castellano—the mafia king who controlled the entire East Coast—gripped my blood-stained hand and choked out: "It's okay. You're all I need."

I believed him.

Until our anniversary, when I smelled her perfume on his shirt and discovered the truth: his sister-in-law had given him a three-year-old son—those same deep brown eyes I'd bled five times trying to create.

The cruel irony? Just the day before, two pink lines had appeared on a pregnancy test.

That night, the explosion lit up the entire ocean, our private yacht burning like a funeral pyre.

The man who made all of New York's underworld tremble finally learned what it meant to lose.

He lost his wife.

And the child he would never know existed.

Three years ago, my brother left me with his most trusted friend, Kaden.

That "trustworthy" Alpha had me pinned beneath him on my third night in the Shadow Pack.

Since then, I played his obedient little "sister" by day and spread my legs for him by night. Three years of sneaking around—I was done.

My ultimatum: make it official or we're done.

Hours ago, with me pressed into the mattress, he swore between thrusts, "Tomorrow. I'll tell everyone tomorrow."

Then his first love Chloe came back.

He dropped everything and ran to her. I followed. Watched him gently wipe her tears—the same hands that had gripped my throat just hours before.

"Kaden, you promised—"

"Shut up." He turned on me, voice lethal. "Don't say another word in front of Chloe. There's nothing between us. I'm doing Seth a favor, looking after his bratty sister. Clear?"
My hands trembled. Three years. All of it—a fucking joke.

I pulled out my phone and texted my brother: "The Silver Moon marriage. I accept."

Ten years loving Liam Rockefeller cost me everything.

He said the football team jumped him—so I charged in and took the punches. He sobbed that his stepbrother would destroy him at Yale—so I ripped up my acceptance letter. He held me at midnight whispering "I'm so lucky to have you"—and I thought that meant forever.

Three months later, I heard him laughing in the locker room—laughing about me.

"Iris is like a fucking puppy, so easy to fool. Now that the Yale spot's open, Emily can go with me."

The bullying was staged. The tears were fake. Those intimate embraces—just tools to control me while he fucked his side piece.

He thought I'd still stand in front of him even with a broken nose. He thought I'd never wise up.

I wised up.

In his stepbrother Sebastian's bed.

I nearly died in the freezing ocean at my adopted sister Jane's birthday party.

When the yacht started tilting and alarms shrieked through the corridors, Dad grabbed Jane and bolted for the deck without looking back. Mom clutched Jane's ragdoll cat in her arms, following close behind under the bodyguards' protection.

They saved the cat.

But left their biological daughter to drown.

Three days later, I staggered home covered in wounds. The living room was decorated with scented candles and a three-tier birthday cake. Light piano music mingled with laughter—they were throwing Jane a makeup birthday party, celebrating how "the whole family" survived the disaster.

I hid my identity and spent five years married to Caelen—a man who claimed to be nothing but a wandering knight.

The day I found out I was pregnant, he showed up with his Black Obsidian Dragon Riders.

Turns out he commanded the Empire's most elite aerial legion.

Oh, and he was getting married. Just not to me.

"I'm marrying Victoria Ashford. The Cabinet Chancellor's daughter. We're equals in power and status, and... we've already slept together."

He promised to set me up with an estate, swore the child and I would never want for anything.

"So I'm supposed to hide in the shadows forever?"

Caelen wouldn't meet my eyes. "She'll make the perfect Commander's wife. Stay out of her way, and I can give you everything—except my name."

My throat burned. Five years of love, and this was all I meant to him.

What he didn't know: I'm Princess Seraphina Aurelian, Crown Princess of the Empire.

And there's no way in hell I'm becoming his dirty little secret.

Three years of chasing Chase Blackwood, and all I got was a front-row seat to him tonguing my "sister."

The old me would've cried. Begged. Made a scene.

The old me also ended up dead.

Funny how a second chance at life gives you clarity.

So here's what's different this time: I'm done being the pathetic ex. I'm done playing nice.

I'm throwing champagne in his face and climbing into bed with Asher Hayes—his best friend, his rival, his worst nightmare.

And Chase? He can rot.

Seven years ago, I crawled on my knees to save Alex Benedetti's ass, and got marked as the bitch who betrayed him.

Seven years later, he came back as New York's deadliest mob boss. Lucy Ferraro, some spoiled mafia princess, was warming his bed while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing his floors.

He let his fiancée treat me like garbage. When I started coughing up blood, the son of a bitch laughed and said I had it coming.

He didn't know the brain cancer was eating me alive.

The day I died, Alex was putting a ring on another woman's finger. He never found out that the girl who took bullets for him—the one he destroyed—was already rotting six feet under while he was saying "I do."

A year ago, my ex abandoned me when I was broke and buried in debt, choosing the Russo family heiress instead.

On the day of his engagement party, he sent me a vicious text: "Wear a wedding dress to Plaza Hotel. Changed my mind. You're marrying me."

I showed up in white.

Luca and his crew waited at the entrance, ready to watch me humiliate myself.

He thought this was my degradation.

But what he didn't know was—I was getting married.

Just not to him.

To Dante Valentino—the most dangerous man in this godforsaken city.

I hid in shadows for six years while my vampire husband played duke with his mistress.

Lucian kept our marriage secret, called our daughter "the half-blood bastard," and rushed to comfort Seraphina's twisted ankle while five-year-old Vanessa nearly died from silver poisoning.

His precious lover had "gifted" my child deadly perfume. While I held my convulsing daughter, he was cutting cake with his real family.

So I handed him divorce papers during his next dramatic rescue mission. Fool signed without reading—too busy playing hero to notice he just legally abandoned his wife and child.

Now the mighty vampire Duke burns under holy sunlight, chasing us to territories his undead flesh can't survive.

Begging on scorched pavement for a second chance he'll never get.

My sister Chiara and I had fought over Matteo for more than a decade.

In my first life, I got my wish and married him. Everyone said he adored me, trusting me to manage the entire Salvatore family's books and money laundering operations. I worked myself to death, literally dying from exhaustion. On my deathbed, he coldly told me the truth: "I never loved you. You're the one who begged to marry me."

In my second life, I let Chiara have her chance. She bore him four children in five years, trying desperately to earn his love, only to die in childbirth. I rushed to her bedside for her final moments, and she cried out to me: "Matteo doesn't love me either... there's another woman in his heart..."

When I opened my eyes again, it was my third life.

This time, we would NOT make the same mistakes.

Three years barren, and Jessamine walked on thin ice in the elite household. Her mother-in-law spat venomous curses daily, calling her a "worthless waste of space" and threatening to force her son into divorce.

She could still remember when Damien had severed all ties with his family to marry her—kneeling outside their door in the pouring rain, begging his parents to accept her: "Jessamine is my one true love! I can't survive without her!" Back then, she was the only woman who existed in his eyes.

But now, for the sake of family inheritance, he had the audacity to demand her consent for his childhood sweetheart Celeste to bear their child. Jessamine endured the soul-crushing agony of watching her husband entwined with another woman, night after torturous night.

Even more devastating—after Celeste delivered a daughter, Damien had the shameless nerve to declare: "The family still needs a male heir."

In that shattering moment, Jessamine finally saw the brutal truth.

Three years ago, my best friend Juliana Pierce was raped and jumped from a twelve-story building. I was there. I saw everything. I know exactly who did it.

Alexander Knight—Juliana's boyfriend, brilliant scientist, the man I've secretly loved for seven years—has spent every moment since hunting for answers. He believes I'm shielding a predator. He's dedicated his life to making mine hell.

Now I'm dying of ALS, and Alexander's dragged my broken body onto his "Memory Judgment Stage" for the world to see. His new technology can rip memories straight from my brain and broadcast them as holograms.

"Tell them who killed Juliana," he shouted.

I refuse. So he cranks up the machine, letting the neural probes tear through my dying brain. My hand shatters. My body convulses. But I won't break.

Until the memories start bleeding out anyway.

And when Alexander sees the rapist's face—Completely loses his mind.

My best friend murdered me.

Before the team tryouts, Mia handed me a pink energy drink. I didn't know it was laced with sleeping pills.

Thirty feet in the air. Top of the pyramid. My body went limp, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings.

I can still hear my bones shattering.

Mia threw herself into my fiancé Carter's arms, sobbing: "Oh God, I grabbed the wrong bottle! The vitamins and sleeping pills got mixed up! Vic will forgive me, right?"

Carter held her tight, not even glancing at me lying in a pool of blood. "Stop crying. It was just an accident."

An accident? My spine snapped in three places.

He lied to the police, saying I was under too much stress and took the pills myself. Packaged my death as the suicide of someone who couldn't handle the pressure.

When I died, the whole school treated me like a joke.

But now I'd opened my eyes. I was back on that day.

He hung up on me while the killer's knife plunged into my body.

Seventeen seconds. That was our final call after seven years of marriage.

He was at the hospital with my "depressed" stepsister, convinced I was just being dramatic again. He didn't even let me finish.

I died that rainy night, taking a secret with me he'll never know.

Three days later, my husband—the city's chief medical examiner—caught a brutal case: female victim, face destroyed by acid.

He worked the autopsy with his usual precision. Methodical. Clinical. Until the facial reconstruction software completed its rendering.

When he recognized my face on that screen, blood exploded from his mouth.

He hit the floor hard.

On my due date, my husband Matteo locked me in an underground freezer at minus ten degrees.

The Torrino family's unbreakable rule: the first-born male inherits the entire mafia empire. My sister-in-law Jennifer and I were both pregnant, our due dates only one day apart. To ensure his brother's child was born first, Matteo made this insane decision.

"My brother and Jennifer's baby has to come first—this is what you owe them!" He ignored my desperate pleas and violent contractions, coldly shoving me into the freezer.

But that wasn't enough. They forcibly injected me with labor-delaying drugs. I curled up in agony on the freezing concrete floor, feeling my baby slowly slipping away, tears of despair streaming down my face.

My baby, Mommy is so sorry...

I married Massimo Salvatore, the mafia don, thirty-two times. And divorced him thirty-two times.

Every single time for the same reason—his precious Claudia came back from her overseas treatment facility.

"She took a bullet to the head for me. Any stress could kill her." That was his only explanation.

The first divorce, I trashed the entire living room. He slapped me across the face: "Cut the DRAMA. We'll get back together once she's stable."

The third time, I followed them to the club and caught them kissing. I confronted him—got locked in the basement for seven days.

Sign the papers, take off the ring, pack my bags. Like a nightmare on repeat.

Until the thirty-third time.

A rival family grabbed both me and Claudia. With a gun to his head, he could only save one of us. I looked at him, voice breaking: "Massimo, just this once, pick me."

He walked toward her.

Four hours later, his men found me in some abandoned warehouse. Three broken ribs, blood everywhere. Our baby—gone.

Massimo camped out by Claudia's hospital bed, wouldn't leave her side. Didn't visit me once. Not even when I got discharged.

That's when I was done.

Everyone in the Blood Moon Pack knew that our Alpha, Ethan Black, was devoted to his Luna, Elena Mourn.

Until he met his fated mate, Celine.

He wanted to sever our bond to be with her, but I refused. We became the pack's toxic couple—he resented me for not letting go, and I despised him for his betrayal.

To get rid of me without looking like the villain, this asshole staged a pity party—claiming a dark witch cursed him in battle, trapping his memories at eighteen, and now his wolf only responded to Celine as his "true mate."

"Elena, I'm stuck at eighteen... I still love you, but our bond is gone." His voice broke. "I'm so sorry for hurting you all these years. Maybe we're both better off apart."

Watching his fake performance, I said yes.

He thought he'd won, never knowing I went along because three years ago, I took a hunter's wolfsbane bullet meant for him. The poison had been killing me ever since. One week—that's all I had left.

Before I died, I wanted one last look at his eighteen-year-old self, even knowing it was all fake.

In my past life, my childhood friend—the star quarterback—threw away his Ivy League scholarship for some hood rat, even getting mixed up in drug deals. When I tried to pull him out of the gutter, I got shanked by gang members on a cold, rainy night.

Yet there he was at the police station, holding that trashy girl tight, telling the cops: "Emma had it coming. Always butting in, trying to run my life."

Second time around, I'm back to the day he begged me to cover for him with coach so he could take that girl to get an abortion.

I looked into his desperate eyes and gave him my sweetest smile, taking the fake sick note: "Don't worry, I've got you covered."

I died for you last time. Your turn now.

On our wedding day, Declan sent me out to Long Island. We'd been together seven years.

He said he'd left his grandmother's lucky cufflinks at the family house.

But when my car died in the storm, I opened my bridesmaid's Instagram live.

Declan was sliding my custom diamond ring onto Phoebe's finger—my adopted sister, the one with the bad heart.

My own parents were crying in the front row. My bridesmaids were cheering.

They'd turned my wedding into a dying wish ceremony for Phoebe.

Hours later, alone in the ER, I called forty-seven times.

No one picked up.

Not until after I lost the baby and disappeared from Manhattan.

That's when Declan finally came apart.

Curfew night. Storm-black sky. My werewolf husband racing his red fox mistress through the no-fly zone like it's a goddamn game.

Ivy's wasted, craving adrenaline. She banks hard into my son's flight path.

Impact. Explosion. Metal rain.

Silas cradles his sobbing side piece while my boy's helicopter spirals into hell:

"Easy, sweetheart. You're breathing, that's what counts. Little punk got himself killed being stupid—not our problem."

Hours later, after they've hosed the wreckage off the runway:

"Roxanne? Your mother and son are ash. Come identify the remains."

I'm ready to burn the world down when my phone lights up:

Mom! Me and Grandma are at the underground fights. Holy shit, what exploded out there? Some poor bastard just got roasted!

They never flew.

So whose charred corpses are cooling in the morgue?

"We promised each other ten PM calls every single night, no matter what was happening in our lives."

That promise used to mean everything to Eric, until it became nothing but busy tones and angry hang-ups while some other woman's perfume lingered on his shirts. The signs were all there, but I kept dialing anyway.

On cancer diagnosis day, I called him nine times and watched each call go straight to voicemail. When he finally answered the tenth, Stella was giggling in the background and all he said was, "Wren, seriously, stop being such a pain in the ass."

I choked down my bloody pills, stared at my engagement ring, and felt the strangest thing—absolutely nothing. The pain had just vanished.

I dropped the ring next to the signed papers and disappeared from his world.

Ryan Aldridge had one rule: he showed up for whoever needed him most.

The problem was, it was never me.

Throat swelling shut in the ER? He was unclogging Sloane Harrington's drain. Anniversary dinner? He left between courses because Sloane was "spiraling."

I forgave it every time. I was the cool girl. The understanding fiancée.

Then my studio caught fire, and a beam came down on my chest.

I lay there—bleeding, pinned, choking on smoke—and watched Ryan vault over me to carry out a woman with a sprained ankle.

"Jocelyn, come on. You can handle this. Look at her—she's shaking."

Something in me went still. Not broken. Finished.

I twisted off the ring with blood-slick fingers and let it disappear into the ash.

Then I disappeared too.

"Arthur, I want a divorce."

My husband was busy draping his suit jacket over Chloe's shoulders, his precious childhood sweetheart. He didn't even turn around, just let out a cold laugh.

"Oh, Evelyn. Playing the sick father card again? That trick's getting old." His voice was dismissive. "I moved your dad out of that private room to teach you a lesson. Maybe now you'll learn some manners around Chloe."

He was so certain I'd come crawling back like I had for three years, begging him to pay for Dad's treatment. So sure I'd be sobbing apologies by tomorrow morning.

What Arthur didn't know was that three hours ago, they'd wheeled my father's body into the cold hospital morgue.

And the divorce papers in my purse were already signed. I didn't need his money anymore.

Five years ago, my ex-boyfriend Jason said coldly when he abandoned me: "Charlotte, you're not worthy of my dreams."

Five years later, when I saw him again, he had become Floreton's tech mogul while I remained a simple sculptor. His new fiancée—a wealthy heiress—sneered at my modest attire: "Someone like you can actually afford to book a top-tier wedding venue?"

She stole my venue, crushed my fingers, and forced me to kneel and apologize: "Say you don't belong here!"

Jason stood by watching coldly, just as indifferent as he was on that rainy night five years ago.

I desperately thought this was my fate, until that familiar, furious voice echoed throughout the entire venue:

"What bastard touched my woman!"

My Bradley had arrived.

This time, I would be the one laughing last.

My husband stole credit for my work, gave it to his girlfriend, and waited for me to say thank you.

He assumed I'd never leave, so he missed me selling our apartment, cutting off his money, and meeting with divorce lawyers.

When he graciously offered me a second chance, I just smiled: "Thanks, but we're already divorced."

They left me to freeze to death in our basement freezer.

The night before prom, my foster sister Leila came crying that I'd burned her Ivy League recommendation letter. My birth parents didn't even listen to one word of explanation—they threw me into that frozen hell in forty-five below.

I beat on that door until my fingers were shredded, screamed until my throat tore apart, but all I could hear from upstairs was their laughter celebrating Leila. Even Justin—the boy I'd loved since we were kids—texted calling me a fucking psycho.

As I drew my last breath, I heard Leila's soft voice outside the door: "Rest in peace, sister."

Now I'm a ghost, watching them lose their minds when the truth comes out.

They left me to die in a burning lab while saving my faker sister. Big mistake.

I hadn't slept in six months, perfecting the neural serum that would save Mom's life. One vial. One chance. Then my adopted sister Mia grabbed it and smashed it on the floor, sobbing about how cruel I was to a "disabled" person.

Mom and Dad ate it up. My fiancé Ryan nodded along—probably because he was banging Mia every chance he got. When fire trapped me in the lab, they carried out "paralyzed" Mia and left me hammering on reinforced glass, choking on smoke.

Want to know the best part? That manipulative snake hopped out of her wheelchair and sprinted to safety the second she thought no one was looking.

Second chance at life? Hell yes.

I'm watching Mia lift that test tube again, ready to destroy everything. But instead of lunging forward like last time, I lean back in my chair.

"Smash away," I say with a shrug. "I'm not the one who'll suffer."

Let's see how this plays out when I'm not the naive fool.

Five years ago, my family burned to death in an "accident."

My loving husband Clifford signed the papers himself—shipped me off to a mental institution without a second thought.

Inside, Becky carved up my face with shattered glass. The same orphan I'd put through school. Then she rebuilt herself to match my features and stole my life—my husband, my son, everything.

Now she marched into the clinic where I scrub floors, dragging my biological child behind her, demanding I apologize to him like some servant.

She has no idea what kind of monster she created.

Ninety-nine times.

I was sent to the punishment chamber ninety-nine times by my mafia don fiancé.

Each time, he watched through bulletproof glass with cold, detached eyes—watching me being deprived of sleep, injected with drugs, tortured until I was barely clinging to life.

"Elara, you're paying for what you did to the Mancuso family."

For the sake of sweet, innocent Yvette—his precious savior—he personally destroyed everything I had.

After the ninety-ninth time, the doctor handed me a critical condition notice. I stopped begging, signed the confession, and vanished completely with my broken body.

The result? When the truth finally came to light, the ruthless don went completely insane.

My parents and twin sister faked their own deaths so she could steal my college acceptance.

I believed it. Sobbed until I couldn't breathe when the cops showed me photos of the burnt yacht. Thought my words—"I hope you all die"—had somehow made it happen.

Two weeks later, I found my sister's backup Instagram: "Finally ditched the boring sister! Bahamas is paradise 🏖"

Something inside me snapped.

Wanna play dead? Stay dead.

I took their death certificates. Canceled their social security numbers. Drained every joint account—every last cent. Sold the house to John, the kind of guy even cops don't mess with.

One month later, they came home tanned and loaded with designer bags, expecting to find me broken on the streets.

What greeted them instead were cold gun barrels pointed at their heads.

Three years after my first love, a Mafia Don, handed me over to his enemies, he finally came to “rescue” me.
Not out of guilt—but because his daughter needed my blood.

Don Silas held me and cried as if his heart were breaking, saying he had thought of me every day.
How ridiculous—his wife Serena stood beside him, and behind them was their daughter, Ava.

I pretended to be moved.
Pretended I still loved him.
Pretended I was willing to be his daughter’s blood donor… and his second wife.

Only one person knew I was acting.
Underboss Liam—the only one who ever managed to get messages to me during those three years of captivity.

“I’ll find a way to get you out.” he said.

But on the day we planned to escape, the Gravoni family—the very people who had imprisoned me—arrived.

Their Don, Joe, looked at me with deep remorse.
“Vera, I’m sorry. Back then, I didn’t know… you were my late sister’s daughter.”

Now both families want me.

But all I want… is to leave alive.

The night was supposed to be Jace Hunter's biggest win. Instead, in front of a packed championship crowd, he dropped his stick, walked off the ice mid-game, and stared at a girl who was not supposed to exist.

"You are supposed to be dead."

Ava Rhodes has never met Jace Hunter, or so she claims. She came to Northwood Academy for one reason, to find out what really happened to her brother Caleb, a hockey prodigy who vanished three years ago after being blamed for an incident that ended his career and left another player permanently injured. Everyone believes Caleb ran. Ava knows better.

From her first day at Northwood, someone wants her gone. Someone knows exactly why she came. And Jace, the one person who might know the truth, refuses to say a word. Then Ava finds a photograph that should not exist, herself, standing beside Caleb and Jace on the night her brother disappeared. A night she has no memory of.

As Ava and Jace are pulled into an uneasy alliance, they start pulling apart secrets Northwood has spent years burying, and the closer they get to each other, the more dangerous the truth becomes.

Jace has one rule. Never get attached.

Ava was never supposed to be the exception.

She was supposed to be dead.

Instead, she might be the only person who can finally uncover what Northwood has hidden all along.

If she was really there that night, what happened to her memory, and who wants it to stay buried?

Witches (The Order) is a Dark Fantasy Novel for Young Adults.

Magic, Spirits, Angels, Demons, Familiars, Witch Hunters, Mythical Creatures, Realms, Dimensions, Past Lives and more. This World is full of it.

Spitfire Merianna is a young girl with an adorable twin sister Nelia. Tragically they have to find a way to survive in a world that they hadn't really known of before. A rogue healer finds the two girls and takes them to The Order, a place filled with magic, wonder, combat, creatures and kooky people that would look more at home in asylums rather than inter-dimensional castles for witches.
In between learning new skills and carving a place for themselves in The Order. Sinister strings are being pulled in the shadows outside of their protected space.
Merianna's bounties and curiosity take her closer to secrets she would have been better off never knowing...

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered as he hugged me closer to him. His forehead touched mine, and his eyes closed. I could feel a tickling sensation from my nose. Something smelled like copper, which probably meant my nose was bleeding…

And I could smell him. He smelled like spices, and earth, a faint smell of wood smoke too, and a sweet smell I couldn’t place, almost like berries, but dark berries. I gritted my teeth as my head started to pound. I lifted one hand to my head, trying to quell the pain.

I saw images of grassy lands, flowers dancing in the wind, and his back to me. Him reaching his hand out to me… I groaned in pain as my head snapped back, trying to get away from the agony, making my already sore neck scream in protest.

“I’m so sorry.” I heard him say again through the ringing in my ears.

Suddenly, a lull fell over me. My head went quiet and my limbs felt heavy. I opened my eyes and saw his expression. He was so sad. I didn’t want him to be sad. I reached my hand back to his face, his name scratching towards the surface of my mind. “Thyrion…” I breathed, but before my fingers could touch his face, blackness filled my vision and my limbs simply stopped working.


Merianna had just officially made the Order her home along with her sister Nelia. Discoveries about hidden plans and dark workings were revealed as the mastermind was unveiled to be the Ex-Head of the Witch Council, Dermon, who had devoted himself to taboo magic.
Merianna also uncovered surprising facts about herself during these events. Which made perfect sense as to why Dermon would undoubtedly want to get his hands on her.
But apparently Dermon had something even worse planned than any of them could ever imagine. Could there be hidden answers in the forbidden taboo archives of The Witch Council? Or will Dermon's main goal only be revealed once it's too late?

I grew up being my father’s prisoner, didn’t know the outside world. Not in the way I wanted, I was tired of doing only your wishes and living only in my own home. What I most desire is to be free, to live and to love without limits.
And I did, as soon as I met him.
Jordan, it was different and at first glance it won me, it became my salvation, and my redemption. He was much more than I imagined, was the love of my life, but what we did not imagine, however, was that because of intrigues involving our families in the past, our love would be put to the test and thus, we would be separated without knowing for sure what fate reserved us.

"First of all, I have a boyfriend, and I've never been with anyone else while I was with him, and secondly, you have a girlfriend, and you're used to cheating on her with any girl, and I don't want to be one of them," I say and tries to move away, but he holds me between his body and the table.

"And who says you're one of them?" he nibbles my lip, making me gasp "You're better, you're unique." he says and with that, I give myself into his arms, allowing him to kiss me like I've never been kissed before.

That feeling Zac gave me when he touched my lips one more time made me feel as bold and daring as I've ever felt. It made me feel a rush of adrenaline to do something that was forbidden and delicious at the same time. And as I've always said since the beginning, he brought out things in me that I hated, a part of me that I detested.

But at that moment, I loved it.