KATE CONNOR. ITALY. ꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎ My thoughts keep churning inside my head, spinning through hypothetical scenarios where everything ends in the worst possible way. I shouldn’t have let him go alone to that meeting. It’s more than obvious now—this whole thing is a Sartori trap. They never act on impulse. They don’t take a single step without measuring it a thousand times first.I pace back and forth nervously, as if movement could make the answers come faster, until I stop in front of the window. The night outside looks completely dark, no trace of the Moon, and I can’t help but feel like it’s a clear sign of bad omen."Aarón, what an idiot you've been… you shouldn’t have gone alone," I murmur anxiously, taking a deep breath in a useless attempt to calm the anxiety eating away at me from the inside.I close my eyes and clench my fists tightly. My mind won’t stop imagining the worst-case scenarios. No matter how hard I try to convince myself that everything will be okay, I can’t sha

Nota de la autora:** Las leyes en esta historia son ficticias.Llevó a Sofia al hotel donde se estaba quedando. La pobre estaba muy mal, insistía en quedarse en la clínica, pero estaba completamente abatida por la tristeza.—¿A eso viniste, Loretta? Y la respuesta es sí… lo hice —dijo Sofia con voz quebrada, aunque cargada de culpa.La sorpresa en los ojos de Loretta era evidente. La amiga parecía descolocada, como si tratara de entender si ya lo sabía o si aquello era nuevo. Pero sí, Sofia había hecho todo eso, guiada por el resentimiento, cegada por el dolor de la traición.—Sofia, no soy quien para juzgarte… pero no es justo que una niña pague las consecuencias del odio de los adultos. Sabes que las autoridades le quitaron la niña a esa chica.—Imaginé que algo así pasaría. El abogado Nataniel me sugirió que dijera que esa chica no atendía bien a la niña, que incluso la maltrataba. Bajó la mirada. No debió haber escuchado a Tabita. Ya no se reconocía. No era ella misma quien actu

AARÓN CONNOR. ITALIA. ꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎ From the exact moment I step foot inside the mansion, the air feels heavy—thick, almost suffocating, like it carries decades of buried secrets. I walk slowly, hands in my pockets, and Violet follows behind me, barefoot, careful with every step she takes on the wooden floor. She doesn’t say a word, but I can feel her alertness.Surprisingly, the place is silent—so silent I can hear her bare feet against the floorboards. Each step echoes like a single note in a house full of shadows. The past seems to linger everywhere. A maid appears from the side hallway, and my wolf recognizes her instantly. She runs toward her, throwing herself into an enthusiastic hug.“Luena!” the maid stops, surprised at first, but then smiles immediately and crouches slightly, returning the embrace tightly.“Miss Violet!” she replies, just as warmly.My little sweet Violet has such a warm heart that it’s easy for her to win people over—even here, in this cold, controlled p

EZRA SWAN.꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎ Coming home from work and not finding her there has become part of a routine I hate—though I’m starting to fear I'm slowly getting used to it. And I don’t want to. She was always the light that filled this house, the only one able to melt away even a little bit of the coldness that seems soaked into these walls. Without her, even the air smells different. Heavier. More hollow.The ceiling clock reads 7:15 when I come down the stairs. My footsteps echo like each one carries extra weight. I stop for a moment before entering the dining room, leaning against the doorframe. The smell of freshly toasted bread, simmering bones, and crispy bacon fills my nose. It’s strange. Very strange. My dad doesn't usually stick around the house this long in the mornings. Much less to make breakfast."I thought you were going to work today," I say, stepping in slowly, as if measuring every movement. I sit carefully across from him, noticing how his fingers tap lightly on his coff

ERIC CONNOR. ITALY. ꘎♡━━━━━━━♡꘎ The lab light is cold — almost cutting — and the air smells of cheap antiseptic and rusted metal. I'm sitting in front of a stainless steel table, surrounded by test tubes and blood plates caked with dried clots. My hands are covered in worn, yellowish latex gloves from constant use. My left arm is pinned to my body in an awkward, immobilized position. The dull pain beneath the bandage reminds me every second that I’m not in control — not of my space, not of my time, not even of my own body.It’s been two weeks since Aaron decided it was a good idea to break my arm as part of his “reminders.” But I didn’t do anything wrong — just existed in the wrong place at the wrong time."You don't like your stay? Or maybe something specific bothers you?" he asks with fake kindness.I don’t even look up. I slide one hand across a sample, slowly rotating the slide under the microscope lens. His false paternal tone irritates me — every word feels like a tighteni