Novels by Belle C

Two months after it had served as a battleground, the square-like clearing now buzzed with life and activity. The pack was in high spirits as they prepared for the full moon celebration. Where there had once been quiet and sombre cleanup efforts following the battle, there was now joy and excitement. Members of the pack, young and old, were busy making final preparations for the evening. Large tables were set up under a gazebo on one side of the clearing, creating a communal space for dining. Nearby, some of the warriors were constructing a pile of logs and kindling, destined to become a roaring bonfire after sunset. The air was filled with laughter and chatter, and children’s playful screams echoed through the clearing as they ran around, immersed in games and chasing one another. The village, transformed by a spirit of camaraderie and celebration, was a stark contrast to its recent past. John walked alongside his grandmother, a sense of peace settling over him as he took in the liv

John hovered on the brink of consciousness, the persistent beep piercing through the fog of his mind, drawing him back from the depths of unconsciousness. Battling against heavy eyelids, he struggled to open them, confusion swirling within. With a determined effort, his eyelids fluttered apart, greeted by the glaring brightness of the room. The intense light assaulted his senses, compelling him to squint as he tried to orient himself. The walls gleamed with clinical whiteness, the scent of antiseptic triggering a sense of déjà vu. How did he end up here again? As his vision adjusted, he recognized the familiar sights of the infirmary—the neatly arranged medications on the nearby table, the incessant beeping was coming from the medical equipment attached to his chest. The more he took in his surroundings, the more reality flooded back, hitting him like a tidal wave: the attack, Mason, Darius! Darius was stabbed! Panicking, John attempted to move, urgency to find Darius consuming him

"Ah, my little pet," Mason said, pulling a handcuffed Desmond forward. "Looks like he's been used as entertainment for that werewolf pack," he laughed without emotion. "Too bad he's now my little pet, and I have no intention of returning him." "Darius," the man, Desmond, whispered with a broken voice. He sounded broken. "My family?" he asked, and Darius replied, "Prius and Carla are here, fighting against the scum that is threatening their Luna's life." John's gaze flickered between Darius and the captive, his confusion palpable. He was about to voice his inquiry when Mason's voice cut through, demanding attention once more. "Enough with the sob stuff," Mason sneered, redirecting John's focus back to him. "So, the little lamb thinks he can challenge the big bad 'wolf'," Mason taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. John's eyes narrowed, a glint of defiance shining within them. "I've faced bigger threats than you," he declared, though uncertainty lingered beneath his bravado. Mason

John felt a growing unease gnawing at him as he muttered to himself, "What's happening?" while scanning the area with a furrowed brow. Turning to Darius, he sought an update. Seeking information, Darius reached out to Fez. "What's the status?" he asked. Fez's response was swift. "The rogues are holding their position, as if they're waiting for orders. They seem to be alone." As the pack's Luna, John tuned into their mindlink conversation, raising an eyebrow. "How many are we talking about, Fez?" he piped in. "About seven on our side, Luna," Fez reported. "Only seven?" John's concern deepened. "And overall?" "Approximately sixty, as we have estimated," Fez confirmed. Though Fez couldn't see him, John nodded,sharing his feeling of unease and asking the tracker to keep his guard up. John couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt amiss. Prius had briefed him on the ruthless nature of the rogues, their disregard for life being well-known. However, this situation didn't

Desmond sat in his usual position, seated on the floor, his back against the cold stonewall of the cell. His arms were folded over his knees, and he rested his head on one of them, the dim light casting faint shadows across the room. It was a small comfort to him as the darkness was no longer as suffocating as it once was, courtesy of what he could only assume was the intervention of his mate. Though he still lacked the “luxuries” of the other cells, such as a bed or amenities, Desmond was no longer shackled like an animal. Instead, he had been granted small reprieves—a daily meal, the absence of chains—that served as a stark reminder of his newfound, albeit uncertain, freedom. Despite the lingering grime and tattered clothing, he felt a glimmer of strength returning to him, his body slowly healing from the wounds inflicted during his captivity. The scars would remain, a testament to his endurance and resilience in the face of adversity, but they no longer bore the weight of despair

Mason paced back and forth, his keen gaze sweeping over the crowd of shifters gathered before him. Low growls filled the air, a testament to the simmering anger and tension that emanated from the group of rogues standing before him. Their red eyes glinted with defiance, their dirty clothes and unkempt appearances serving as a stark contrast to the more polished warriors of the Feral Glen pack. Turning his attention to Arlo, Mason's expression was unreadable as he addressed him. "You are not as useless as I thought," he remarked with a hint of begrudging respect. "How many do we have now?" Arlo gritted his teeth, his patience wearing thin in the presence of the egocentric warlock. "59," he replied tersely, his voice tinged with irritation. "We are still short, but it's all we could do." Mason's lips curled into a smug smile as he dismissed Arlo's concerns with a wave of his hand. "They are more than enough," he declared confidently. "Ruthless and with no care for their pathetic lives