Keith is a chain hotel owner. Keith never liked you. Yet, he married you, he never joined you in bed and he had quiet dinners with you in silence. He was cold, rude, and emotionless. A year after his marriage to you his rival business people kidnapped you in order to get even with him because he was always winning the awards and the fame. They chained you up and beat you until you were unconscious. Then they kept you in an underground place outside the city where they mercilessly beat you every day and tortured you. Keith's men tried to find you everywhere. Even the police were involved without any success as there was no trace of you left and no leads. Two years pass and Keith gets married to Amelia. His family man image is good for the hotel business. But a year after his second marriage you return back. You were released by your kidnappers.

The smell of coffee always hit you as you passed the small, cosy cafe. You never meant to linger, yet there he was. Lester, the man who made your heart stumble with every glance. The cafe itself was peculiar. Lester only tolerated male customers. The one time you dared enter, he barked at you to leave, no courtesy in his eyes. You were new in this remote, breathtaking town, searching for inspiration to write your next book, but something about him kept pulling you back. Today, a sign caught your eye: "HELP WANTED. ONLY MALE STAFF ACCEPTED." A smirk curved your lips. An idea formed, reckless yet thrilling. By morning, you had bought masculine clothes, a short-haired wig, a fake mustache, and round eyeglasses. You rented a modest house, took on the name Noah Boston, and approached Lester, pretending to be a man desperate to work at his cafe. Lester had no idea you were a woman, and you relished the closeness your deception bought. His scent drew you in relentlessly from the beginning, but soon, he realized the truth. Your scent was mixed with someone else's because you used second hand clothes but with weeks and laundry it faded away. Anger and disbelief flashed in his eyes, but you insisted, playing the lie as long as you could. Lester was a werewolf, secretly bound by a pact arranged by his father, the pack's Alpha. Since childhood, he was promised to Melinda. He avoided women, refused love, and created his male-only cafe to keep his heart safe. Yet here you were, human and desperately in love, no knowing that he was a werewolf and he was already taken. © AnnaSenzai

Elrikr of the Northern Fangs was born beneath roaring storms and jagged peaks, a child of frozen fjords and restless seas. Raised by the harsh winds of the north, he was shaped into a warrior of fierce renown, his name whispered across coasts for the battles he survived and the ships he burned. Yet as years passed, the weight of fallen foes pressed heavily upon him until the taste of victory turned bitter. When the war cries faded, Elrikr drifted into solitude, wandering the silent ranges of Dùrhalden like a relic of a forgotten age, a man carved from frost and memory. When you were small, a raid tore through your village. Elrikr, a young boy then, came like winter’s fury, his axe sweeping through smoke and chaos. He lifted you from the ashes and carried you to safety. From that day, he became your unseen guardian, stern, steady, untiring. Now you are older and your heart longs for love.. You find him seated in a quiet field where sunlight bends the tall grass, his weapon resting across his knees. His pale eyes meet yours, calm yet shadowed by years of battle. “It is your turn,” he says, voice roughened by wind and silence. In that moment you understand: the world beyond the hills waits for you, while the old soldier lingers in peace, fading into legend, still unbroken.

The rain poured in silver sheets that night, turning the forest road into a blur of water and light. Rocks’ helmet visor fogged with every breath, and the world shrank to the trembling beam of his headlight. The wheels skidded once, twice, before he slowed, heart pounding. He thought he had taken the right turn, but the road vanished beneath him, swallowed by mud and shadow. He stopped, lifted his helmet, and the cold air hit his face like a warning. No signal. Only the hiss of rain and the thud of his heartbeat. Suddenly a sound, running footsteps, too fast to be human. He turned, saw movement, and then nothing. When he woke, sunlight dripped through wooden slats. The scent of herbs, smoke, and pine filled the cabin. Bruno, a rugged man with eyes that carried too many winters, stood by the fire. “You’re lucky,” he said quietly. “Found you bleeding near the ravine.” Rocks noticed the bandages at his neck, and when he touched them, Bruno’s expression changed. “That mark,” he murmured, “means you were claimed.” Over the next weeks, the forest became his world. Bruno taught him about werewolves, the packs, the territories, the curse of the claim. Rocks learned to shift, to hear the pulse of the forest beneath his feet. When he found Meredith, the Alpha who had marked him, she welcomed him into her pack with a smile that promised danger. Months later, you returned to your father’s cabin, carrying the ashes of city dreams. You met Rocks on a quiet evening, the smell of rain still on him. Love struck you like lightning, fierce and sudden, but he was distant, his gaze haunted. Bruno told him everything he avoided talking about. You were Meredith’s daughter. When Meredith learned of your love, jealousy grew inside her like wildfire. Before the moon rose again, Rocks made his choice. He walked away from both of you, leaving the forest silent except for the rain.

You built an empire with Bob but forgot how to love inside it. You met him the day after college graduation, a man of power and sharp suits, who spoke about futures the way others spoke about dreams. You married him within weeks, leaving Tyler standing in the rain outside your apartment door, his eyes filled with disbelief and heartbreak. You had chosen wealth over warmth, a penthouse over a porch, ambition over affection. For seven years you reigned beside Bob like a queen, your name glittering on every tower your company raised. Yet behind the glass walls and lavish parties, silence grew heavier than gold. When sickness came, it stripped you of your strength and illusions alike. One afternoon, from the tinted window of your car, you saw Tyler again. Grease stained his hands, sunlight caught the curve of his jaw, and he was laughing with a woman named Nancy. His life was simple, small, and painfully whole. You returned home haunted by what you had thrown away. When his wedding day came, you drove for hours just to see him one last time. But when the priest asked if anyone had objections, the words burst from you before you could stop them. The church froze. Tyler’s face turned from astonishment to fury as he pulled you outside. You begged for another chance, confessed your regret, your loneliness. He only laughed, bitter and tired, and told you to disappear. Desperate, trembling, you whispered that if he did not take you back, you would destroy Nancy’s family. You had the proof, and you meant every word. © AnnaSenzai

The nation was waiting for the biggest wedding of the ages. Terence Welsh had just become Prime Minister and his son Marco was to marry Cassandra, the love of his life. But four months before the ceremony, scandal struck. Cassandra eloped with a famous American model and vanished from the country. Terence panicked while Marco assumed she was visiting her family in the States and would return soon with them. You worked as a low-ranking clerk in the government office when Terence spotted you leaving the building. The next thing you knew, you woke up in a hospital bed, your face bandaged, with nurses buzzing around and two security guards stationed nearby. Weeks later, as the doctors prepared to remove the bandages, Terence entered with his team and explained that you were now a substitute for the missing bride. Refusal was not an option. The operation had been successful and you now looked exactly like Cassandra. You married Marco as arranged. Terence arranged a fake American family to support the story. Your height, American accent, and new face made Marco suspicious only of your behavior. The wedding was opulent, attended by presidents, prime ministers, elite officials, and even kings. That night Marco was passionate and blissfully happy. The following day, unable to continue the charade, you confessed the truth. You had fallen in love with Marco during the months you spent together and could no longer hide your identity. The guilt of deception weighed heavily, but honesty finally bridged the gap between you and the man you truly loved. © AnnaSenzai

The sun was slipping behind the hills when your father, Ippolitos, returned home with empty hands and a tired heart. “Go,” he said, his voice rough with shame, “find mushrooms in the forest. We’ll eat tonight, one way or another.” So you took a woven basket, kissed his weathered cheek, and went into the green silence. The forest greeted you with its filtered light, golden rays piercing the leaves like threads of divine fire, painting your face in shifting brightness. Every breath carried damp earth and pine. You wandered for hours, kneeling to inspect moss, turning leaves, finding nothing but roots and stones. Exhausted, you came upon a spring, its surface trembling with reflected sunlight. You sat and began to sing softly, just for yourself. Your voice mingled with the water’s whisper. You sang of hunger, of your father’s hands, of the wind’s patience. You didn’t know that your melody rose beyond the forest, threading through the sky to reach Apollo himself. He had loved once; Phoebe, whose voice had been pure as dawn. The Muses envied her and silenced her forever. Hearing you, Apollo felt that wound reopen. Your song was hers reborn. In fury he descended, the air brightening with his arrival. “Stop,” he thundered. You turned, startled, and saw him; sunlight made flesh, beauty sharpened by rage. “You mock her memory,” he said. “I mock no one,” you whispered, trembling. Weeks later, whispers spread among the Muses. They came seeking you. But before they could reach the humble field, Apollo appeared again fierce, divine, protective. In full daylight he seized your wrist and vanished with you into the shadowed mouth of a cave. © AnnaSenzai

This gift, this blessing of love you gave him, felt like a miracle from above. But he ruined it, everything you two had built in secret over the years. At the head of his crew stood his father, known for his harsh rules and cold authority. He trusted no one who crossed him, and finding out his son cared for someone from a rival group only made him colder. Dimitri was torn, trapped between protecting you and keeping peace in his world. He could not imagine the love you once shared fading into silence. He could not bear the thought of losing you completely. Soon he found himself at your side of town, chaos breaking loose around him. He hated it, hated how his instincts took over, how his father’s world still lived in him. But what he hated most was the look in your eyes, not anger, just heartbreak. That day he lost his sense of balance. That day you were sent away. Three years and five months passed without you, leaving him to live on fading memories of what once felt simple and pure. Dimitri’s longing for you never stopped, it burned quietly, wishing for even one more chance. You were still everything to him. And now you stood before him again, surrounded by the consequences of his choices. “That was not needed,” your voice carried no warmth. The smile he loved was gone, replaced by something distant. “I was just trying to say welcome back,” Dimitri said, though his words sounded hollow.

The first snowflakes fell from the gray winter sky, cold and deliberate. You waited on the small bridge in the park, hands buried deep in your coat pockets, eyes searching for him among the drifting flakes. Minutes passed, then hours. The snow thickened, smothering the world in white silence. Anxiety gnawed at your chest. You left, hurried steps crunching over the frozen path, the town blurring past, each building a cold witness to your despair. The chapel appeared, small and lonely, its spire dusted in snow. The faint murmur of voices drew you in. Inside, your blood froze. Emil was there. In front of the altar, smiling, radiant, holding Eloise’s hand. The service was ending. Tears stung your eyes. Your heart fractured, each beat a jagged shard. He kissed her. Your feet betrayed you. You stumbled over the pews, heart hammering, lungs burning. He turned. Your eyes met his. No shame. No regret. Only a cold, cruel acknowledgment that he had chosen this, and you were nothing. You fled, the snow biting your face, echoing his betrayal. Two years later, whispers lingered. Some claimed they had vanished to the city, living in reckless luxury. Others swore Emil had fallen ill, abandoned, left behind by the woman he had traded you for. The town moved on. You did not.

It’s Halloween night. Fraser Ferguson, a man with a heavy British accent and an air that reminds of old Britain, is the regular night nurse at the Maximilian Palliative Facility. In your backyard, laughter from your friends mixes with the delighted shrieks of neighborhood kids darting from house to house. You lose a dare. Nate, your boyfriend whose eyes linger on Nancy, your estranged cousin, dares you to visit the Maximilian at midnight and take a video. Your hands tremble. You argue, afraid of dead people and rumors of recent transfers, but he smirks, insisting. At midnight, you creep through the empty halls, phone clutched tightly. Dim shadows stretch over sleeping patients. You start recording when the lights die abruptly. Your phone slips from your hand and shatters. Panic seizes you. Footsteps approach. A bright flashlight slices through darkness. Fraser appears. His deep British accent, calm and soothing, cuts through your fear. You notice his striking looks and the magnetic pull of his gaze. You fall instantly. He guides you out, firm yet gentle, warning you never to return. The next day, staff confirm no visitor without patient ties may enter, but you ignore them. Fraser grows impatient, even rude. Weeks later, at dawn, you wait outside his apartment to confess your feelings. Jacob, his landlord, warns you to leave, revealing Fraser is a vampire who avoids attachments. You refuse to believe him. A year later, persistence pays. You become his one night girlfriend. It is Halloween again. Dawn breaks. You wake beside him. Eyes closed, pale skin, a fang glimmers with a few drops of blood, and you realize you are hopelessly entwined with him. © Anna Senzai

You were adopted by General Lee Do-gyeom’s family before you turned four, raised in a house where silence was obedience and order was the language of love. When the war began you clung to your stepfather’s sleeve, begging him not to go. His eyes, cold with duty, could not read the trembling fear that came from love. He left at dawn, and the echo of his boots stayed in your dreams for years. Letters came carrying the weight of distance and blood until one arrived saying he was ill. You traveled to the Armed Forces Wonju Hospital, heart pounding, finding him pale but proud, still trying to stand like a soldier. Beside him was Lieutenant Park Min-seok, calm, precise, and unshakable. Your father trusted him deeply yet warned you to stay away. You saw in his eyes the sharpness of a blade and the mystery of someone built for war. When your father died, Min-seok became your protector, following you through nights filled with sirens and fear. One evening you saw him disappear into Chiaksan Forest. Curiosity drew you in, your steps careful, your breath shallow. There the shadows shifted into monstrous figures, men with claws and glowing eyes. Ji-ho caught your scent and dragged you to Min-seok. His rage was burning. You had uncovered the truth he hid from the world. Then Ha-yoon, an omega, appeared beside him, soft and close, and he allowed her touch. Jealousy pierced through you like sorrow. You realized it was never curiosity. It was love, wild and forbidden, for a man who was not only human but something more, a werewolf. © AnnaSenzai

They say treat others the way you want to be treated. Elmer Jones never believed in that. Stubborn and sharp-tongued, he carried the kind of charm that could make your heart tremble and your sanity falter. You met him on a windy afternoon when he picked up a fallen red rose and handed it to you instead of discarding it. You were strangers then, both young and dreaming of things that never came true. His eyes were unreadable, his expression careless, yet something in that moment stitched your heart to his. You chased him, literally, breathless and desperate, and somehow persistence turned into knowing, knowing turned into love, and love became a marriage built on fragile glass. Two years later you wore a ring that felt like a shackle. His infidelities were quiet storms that you chose to survive, not because you were weak, but because you still believed he might change. You hated yourself for the patience you mistook for strength. Then came Gina, and the world cracked open. She was his escape, his thrill, the new name he whispered where yours once lived. When he asked for a divorce, he did it with a tone so cold it froze your tears midfall. You begged, not for him, but for the years you had lost. He married Gina. You stayed behind in silence, working from home, tending to pets whose owners were kinder than your own past. Then one morning, you opened your door to meet your new client and froze. There he was... Elmer Jones, older, hollow-eyed, holding a leash with trembling hands. The name on the booking was not his, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. And in that instant, the circle closed. © AnnaSenzai

The morning mist still clung to the stone walls of St. Edmund’s Church when you arrived, lace veil fluttering in the chill Cumbrian breeze. Bells tolled softly, and everything, the roses, the ribbons, even the pews polished to a shine, seemed to hum with expectation. It was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. You were marrying Ethan Fairborne: dependable, kind, introduced to you by your parents, and perfectly suitable. Love, if not a wildfire, had been steady and warm. But then you saw him. Kenelm Linwood. The name alone sent a tremor through your chest. He was standing beside Ethan, straight-backed in his tailored navy suit, hair a little longer than you remembered. The moment your eyes met, time staggered. Memories of Cartmel village, cobblestone lanes, pub laughter, his voice low and lilting with that northern drawl, came rushing back. You’d once been mad for him, foolishly so. He’d warned you he wasn’t ready, haunted by Melita, his past heartbreak. Yet you’d believed your devotion could change him, until that evening by the viaduct when you saw him hand in hand with Eloise. His words still cut: “We were never official, love.” You’d fled, moving to Cleveland, vowing never to look back. And now, fate had brought him here, best man to your groom. As vows were about to begin, a crackling sound echoed. Smoke. Then fire. Candles toppled, screams filled the air. You grasped Ethan’s arm, but through the haze you saw Kenelm racing toward you, calling your name, his accent, your undoing, slicing through the chaos. And you wondered, in that burning moment, whether destiny had ever truly let you go.

1947. The war was over but hunger still prowled every street and home. People sold heirlooms for bread, bartered clothes for a bowl of soup. Your sisters had been given away during those grim years, married to men too old to serve. You were the only one left, and when word came of Raymond Burnett, a farmer in the deep South who lived alone, your parents made their bargain. A matchmaker arranged it, and you were traded for a sack of rice and a sack of wheat. The journey felt endless. When the car stopped, the fields stretched bare in every direction and the house sagged under years of dust. Raymond greeted you with an awkward smile and a kiss upon your hand. He had broad shoulders and a gentle air, the kind of man who had never learned the art of charm. He had served in the war and returned to bury his parents, inheriting the farm and its silence. Once he had loved a girl named Elise, but word said she was lost, vanished into the chaos of war. The wedding was small, with a few neighbors and no music. Life afterward was humble and hard. He toiled for you, gave you food, gave you shelter, yet your spirit bristled against life. You snapped at him, resented his quiet, and he bore it without anger. Then Elise returned, memory restored, heart unbroken. She stood before him alive, and you saw his soul lean toward her though he did not touch her. His love had always been hers, yet you would not release him.

Unclaimed Omegas were bound by laws older than memory. Only Alphas or Omegas could claim them. Betas were said to be too cold, too detached to carry such bonds. Brix knew the rules well. He was the town’s pharmacist, the quiet figure behind shelves of herbs and bottles, visited by both humans and wolves from the outskirts. To most, he was dependable, gentle in voice, quick with wit, unfailingly respectful. He carried himself with a calm that often looked like distance, though inside he sometimes wished he had been born Alpha. Perhaps then Omegas would notice him. His pheromones smelled faintly of vanilla, soothing yet strangely uncommon, lingering longer than most. That evening he caught it, a sharp and unmistakable scent. An unclaimed Omega in heat, during the rise of the Etheral Moon. He stiffened, his composure cracking for the first time in years. When you walked into the pharmacy, prescription in hand, you felt it too. The vanilla scent tangled with your breath, clinging, confusing. Betas were not supposed to affect you like this. You met his eyes and in them saw restraint, even fear. Brix bowed slightly, refusing to let instinct overtake law. Later, unsettled, you sought counsel. Ronan, the Alpha whose presence filled every corner, warned you coldly. Stay away from the pharmacist. Stay away from Betas. They have no right to you. But when the Etheral Moon rose high and silver, you could not resist. You lingered outside Brix’s shop, drawn to that impossible vanilla warmth. He met you at the door, eyes hard, voice harsher than you thought him capable of. “Go,” he said, though his hands trembled. “I will not break the law for you.” And the night swallowed you both, the Moon burning above, cruel in its beauty.

Hudson was not the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. Most people swore he did not have one. His blonde hair caught the sunlight, his green eyes were sharp as glass, and his tall, broad-shouldered frame filled a room without effort. He was the kind of figure people noticed but rarely approached. Hudson did not make it easy. His words were blunt, his tone was sharp, and his presence carried a quiet hostility that pushed strangers away. You, however, had never been a stranger. Since childhood you had decided he was yours to claim as a best friend, and he had never shaken you off. He spoiled you in his own gruff way, though he would rather die than admit it. “You want to what on my motorbike?” Hudson asked, his voice flat but edged with incredulity. His hand tightened on the helmet tucked beneath his arm, his jaw set in resistance. The bike was his one untouchable rule. A sleek black machine that he cared for like blood. He could deny the world, deny himself, even deny the truth of what he felt every time your smile caught him off guard, but the bike was sacred. Hudson rubbed the back of his neck, awkward and uncertain. With people he was hopeless. With you he was defenseless. He could handle bruises, wrecks, and storms, but your determination was something else entirely. His thoughts tumbled, blunt and absolute. I cannot say no to her. But if it is about the bike, I will.

Dusk in Lyon pours gold across the city, streaming through your window and settling on your tear-streaked cheeks. You curl up on your bed, the pillow pressed to your face, still trembling from the betrayal you discovered. Louis, the man you loved, caught in Helena’s arms after her sister’s warning had sounded like a cruel bell. Your heart pounds when a knock at the door interrupts your solitude. Benoît, Louis’ uncle, stands there, impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt. His presence brings both comfort and unease, a strange mix of familiarity and authority you cannot ignore. He explains that he has been searching for Louis urgently but has no way to reach him. He is meant to meet the bride Louis arranged, and suddenly a daring idea forms in your mind. You introduce yourself as that woman, claiming Louis has left Lyon for two weeks. Benoît, decisive and in a hurry, agrees to marry you within days and whisks you to Paris, citing business matters that demand his attention. He is rigid and opinionated, uninterested in flirtation, preferring quiet nights at home to any excitement. You notice how mundane his life is, yet it is comforting in its predictability. A few days later chaos erupts. Louis and his family call about the wedding arrangement. Fenia, the intended bride, is stunned at being replaced, Louis is furious, Benoît’s anger burns at your lie, and his family stares in disbelief. You stumble over explanations, unable to control the storm of shocked eyes and voices. Benoît, his patience shattered, demands a divorce. In the heated, public argument, the fragile world you constructed crumbles, leaving only the bitter taste of consequences and the weight of your impulsive deception.

They had met across centuries, in ruined abbeys where ivy strangled the stones, on cliffs where the Atlantic hurled itself against the black rock, beneath skies heavy with silver rain and the cry of seabirds. Each life told the same story. She loved him without faltering, pouring her soul into him as if he were a stór, her treasure. He turned away, afraid of the weight of her devotion. Yet their spirits were bound, anam cara, soul friends through lifetimes, a thread older than Ireland’s earth. In this life Lany carried the sea in his veins. A photographer, he roamed the coasts of Galway and Kerry, waiting for storms to rise, for sunlight to strike emerald hills, for waves to break white on the Aran rocks. He loved Joan, believed she was his harbor, his safe place in a world of tempests. Then you appeared, and the air itself shifted, as though the land whispered mo chroí, mo ghrá, my heart, my love. Dreams surged like restless tides, of winters endured together, of fires and deaths faced hand in hand. He woke whole, and terrified, striking out with cruel words and silences colder than January rain. Still you would not let him go. Joan’s mother was gravely ill, her family drowning in debt. You covered the medical expenses on the condition Joan release him. Then your family bound you and Lany in marriage. He accepted with fury, despising you, despising fate. Yet the bond smoldered beneath every glance, relentless as the sea. Was it curse or mercy? How many lives must pass before he surrenders to the truth written in his soul?

You dress for Isabelle’s birthday with a knot in your stomach. Isabelle, the woman your husband Kieran once called his only love, the woman he dreamed of marrying. Nearly a year has passed since your wedding. An arranged union, cordial but hollow. He is polite, attentive in the ways duty requires, yet his touch never lingers, his smile never warms. You remind yourself this should be enough, but deep down you crave something more. Isabelle has just returned to the country. Yesterday, she invited you both to her celebration. You wanted to decline, but when Kieran asked, you forced a smile and agreed. From the moment you entered, the air shifted. Her friends drew Kieran into corners, leaving you isolated. She spoke loudly of their beautiful, passionate past. Whispers skimmed the room, comparing her glow to yours. Slowly, you realized the evening’s design: to reignite what once was and push you out. But did Kieran see it, or simply not care? Then the trap snapped shut. While you sat quietly with your coffee, Isabelle stumbled into you. The cup spilled. Before you could speak, she clutched her arm, weeping, accusing you of shoving her, of burning her deliberately. Her friends echoed the lie. Faces turned, eyes sharp with scorn. Jealous. Insecure. Kieran broke through the circle. Your pulse thundered. Would he believe you or her? He helped Isabelle into a chair, then crossed to you. His face unreadable. “Let’s go home.” His hand closed around yours, pulling you firmly into the night.

Mia and you had been best friends since elementary. You grew up side by side, sneaking out to parties together, skipping school just to wander around town, even trying a cigarette once though you coughed so hard you swore never again while she laughed until her sides hurt. College did not separate you, nor did the first jobs. She stood proudly as one of your bridesmaids, holding your hand before you walked down the aisle. For four years you had been married to Ranulph, a man whose difficult character demanded more strength than you thought you had. You tried to impress him with discipline, with silence, with restraint, reading books you did not enjoy, learning to give him space, teaching yourself not to cling. He saw none of it. Instead he accused you of being distant, cold, detached. Fights grew sharper in the last year until love felt poisoned. Mia had been your bridge, soothing him, soothing you, always ready to listen when you begged her to mediate. One night during vacation there was a beach party, the air alive with firelight and music. Ranulph went further with friends and joined a circle around a bonfire. They played spin the bottle, and when the neck of the glass pointed at Mia you walked up at that very moment. You thought he would kiss her cheek politely. Instead his mouth claimed hers with hunger, and what shattered you most was how she did not resist, how she kissed him back beneath the flames while you stood frozen. © AnnaSenzai