Cassian Vale was built to survive. Former black-ops weapon. Mercenary commander. The kind of man people whispered about long after the blood dried. He doesn’t sleep much. Doesn’t speak unless necessary. And absolutely does not let people touch him. Then he meets Evelyn Mercer. A reckless underground mechanic with grease on her cheeks, unpaid parking tickets stuffed in her pockets, and a terrifying lack of survival instincts. The first time Cassian sees her, she crashes an ice cream truck into the middle of his assassination. The second time, she insults his armored vehicle to his face. The third time? She stitches a bullet wound into his shoulder while threatening to poison his coffee if he twitches again. Evie thinks Cassian is emotionally constipated, vaguely homicidal, and incapable of acting like a normal human being. Unfortunately, she might be falling for him anyway. And Cassian— Cassian is beginning to realize that Evelyn Mercer is far more dangerous than any weapon he’s ever faced. Because for the first time in years… The monster is hesitating.

The men at Blackridge decided Emily Carter was weak long before they learned her name. Quiet women didn’t survive there. Not in a place built from concrete, bruises, and men who mistook cruelty for strength. From the second she arrived, the jokes started. “Careful,” Ryan laughed during drills. “She might break a nail.” Marcus made her carry extra weight packs. Jake called her “Princess” every chance he got. And Emily? She never reacted. Never argued. Never fought back. That only made them push harder. Because silence in Blackridge wasn’t seen as dignity. It was seen as permission. Then came the locker room. Steam curled through the fluorescent lights as Emily pulled off her training shirt—and the entire room went dead silent. Scars. Massive ones. Burned deep across her back and shoulders. Jagged. Twisted. Like someone had tried to tear her apart and failed. For one second, nobody laughed. Then Ryan smirked. “Well damn,” he said. “What attacked you? A lawn mower?” Marcus stepped closer, staring openly now. “Maybe that’s why she acts so weird,” he muttered. “Maybe she’s damaged.” The laughter came back louder this time. Crueler. Emily grabbed for her shirt, but Marcus caught the fabric first. “Relax,” he mocked softly. “We’re just curious.” Her breathing broke instantly. Hands trembling. Eyes unfocused. And for the first time since arriving at Blackridge— Emily Carter cracked. She dropped onto the cold tile floor trying to breathe while the room watched her fall apart. Some laughed. Some stared. Nobody helped. Then the locker room door exploded open. “STEP AWAY FROM HER.” The voice hit the room like a gunshot. General Robert Hayes stood in the doorway, eyes burning with something far worse than anger. Recognition. The room went silent. Hayes looked at Emily. Then at the scars on her back. And suddenly his face changed. Not shock. Not pity. Guilt. Heavy. Immediate. Devastating. Marcus frowned. “Sir…?” Hayes stepped forward slowly. Then spoke words that made the blood drain from every face in the room. “You idiots,” he said quietly. "Shut your mouths! Do you even know who she is?" Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Then Hayes looked directly at Jake Miller. And what he said next nearly destroyed him.

For Elena Hawthorne, revenge for her sister’s death was not a choice — it was survival. Every heartbeat, every calculated step, brought her closer to Victor Cassano, the mafia don who thought he could destroy her world. The unchallenged don, was used to obedience, to fear, to women who played their parts—until Elena’s red hair and icy eyes struck at the core of his empire. He had underestimated her. Every calculated move, every subtle provocation, every accidental brush of skin sent sparks of obsession through him. She was the predator in heels, he the prey who couldn’t escape the magnetic pull of her intelligence, beauty, and danger. He tried to dominate. She tried to manipulate. But both were ensnared in a deadly, irresistible dance neither could escape. At a gala where power and money collided, Elena struck. Deals crumbled, alliances shattered, and Victor realized the woman he had dismissed as a mere pawn was the ultimate predator. She turned his empire into her chessboard, twisting rivals and exposing weaknesses with surgical precision. In the world of mafia intrigue, only the cunning survived—and only the irresistible commanded true power.

Kael Vanth survived black sites, covert wars, psychological conditioning, and years of being turned into something more useful than human. Tier-One mercenary. BLACK VEIL operative. A masked ghost people whispered about in locked rooms. The kind of man governments denied existing while secretly pointing toward impossible problems and saying: > “Send him.” He was silent, lethal, emotionally unreadable. A man who wore tactical gloves like skin and violence like breathing. Even other mercenaries kept their distance. As for someone like that— Eliana Vale, civilian translator, professional liar, and deeply unqualified emotional disaster, had one immediate thought: > “He looks like he hasn’t slept since the fall of Rome.” Then one night, Kael watched her calmly steal classified intel from beneath the nose of an armed contractor while pretending to flirt over champagne. He was monitoring the room from a rooftop sniper position. One second he was calculating bullet trajectory. The next? Eliana smiled at the target, slipped a data drive into her sleeve, shattered a wine glass into a guard’s throat, and walked out before the body even hit the floor. Kael forgot to pull the trigger. For exactly four seconds. The longest distraction he’d had in years. ... Later, Eliana sat cross-legged on the floor of a freezing safehouse, translating encrypted files while six armed operatives cleaned blood off their gear nearby. No one spoke. Mostly because Ghost was standing behind her. Watching. Eliana didn’t look up. > “Does your organization offer therapy, or is unresolved trauma part of the uniform?” The room went dead silent. Kane slowly stopped breathing. Because nobody joked with Ghost. Nobody. Kael stood motionless beside the table, skull-black mask tilted slightly toward her. Then finally: > “Eliana.” She glanced up lazily. > “That’s my name, yes. Excellent observational skills.” His grey eyes lowered briefly to the bruise on her wrist. Then to the knife hidden in her boot. Then back to her face. > “You’re hiding something.” Eliana smiled too quickly. > “So are you.” Another long silence. Heavy. Dangerous. Then Kael stepped closer. Close enough for her to hear the roughness in his breathing beneath the mask. > “You should be afraid of me.” Eliana looked directly into his eyes. > “You keep saying that like it’s a warning instead of a confession.” ① Emotionally repressed masked mercenary × emotionally guarded civilian liar ② He was trained to kill without hesitation. She’s the first thing that ever made him hesitate. ③ Slow burn / masked antihero / mutual obsession / black humor / PTSD mercenary / dangerous emotional dependency / “she makes the weapon want to become human.”

In a city torn by war, fearless journalist Clara Hart captures chaos through her lens—until a hidden landmine nearly kills her. Ethan Cross, a skilled bomb disposal expert, saves her life, igniting a spark neither expected. Amid explosions, betrayal, and loss, survival is their first priority—but passion is unavoidable. Can love survive the battlefield, or will war claim more than just their hearts?

Ghost survived black sites, torture, overseas wars, and six years of becoming something less human and more useful. Founder of BLACK VEIL. Mercenary captain. A ghost story in tactical gear. The kind of man people called when they needed a building cleared, a body retrieved, or a problem buried so deep it stopped having a name. He was silent, brutal, untouchable. Even his own men feared him. As for someone like that— Nyra Quinn, underground mechanic and illegal street racer, had one very professional opinion: “He looks like he buries people in wet cement for stress relief.” Then one day, Ghost watched her steal a motorcycle outside a bank and chase down a robber through downtown LA traffic like she’s starring in her own action movie. He’s in the middle of a sniper assignment when it happened. One second he’s calculating wind direction. The next? Nyra tackled the guy off a bike, draged him into an alley, and started beating him with her helmet... He forgot his target existed for six seconds. For the first time in eight years. ... Later, Nyra worked under the hood of BLACK VEIL’s armored SUV while six armed mercenaries stood around like emotionally constipated furniture. She didn’t look up. > “Does your boss come with a user manual, or is the mask supposed to explain the whole personality disorder?” The garage went silent. Because no one talked about Ghost. Not like that. Not in front of him. Ghost stood beside the vehicle, skull mask turned toward her. After a long pause, he said, > “Nyra.” She rolled out from under the engine with a wrench in her hand. > “What?” His grey eyes lowered to the grease on her cheek. Then to her mouth. Then back to her eyes. > “Come here.” Nyra narrowed her eyes. > “If this is a murder thing, I’m charging extra.” Ghost’s voice dropped lower. Rougher. > “I lost focus on a job today.” Nyra blinked. > “Congratulations on having a human experience?” His men stopped breathing. Ghost didn’t move. > “Because of you.” Nyra stared at him. The wrench slipped slightly in her hand. Across the garage, Kane muttered, > “We’re all completely fucked.” ① Emotionally repressed masked mercenary captain × sunshine chaos mechanic ② He kills people for touching him. She touches his mask and asks if he’s hiding scars or feelings under there. ③ Slow burn / touch-starved antihero / found family mercenaries / black humor / “she makes the monster hesitate.”

Zora had transmigrated into a book. In her mind, a voice resonated—the Oracle. [Congratulations on your second chance at life! Your mission is as follows—] [Target the villain while he is still at his weakest. Capture his heart and prevent the impending end of the world.] In her past life, Zora was a killing machine bred in the darkest pits of the Arena. Now, she’s transmigrated into a high-magic world with one absurd mission: tame the world-ending villain while he’s still weak. Her method? Instead of offering warmth and love, she plunges golden puppet threads into his very marrow. "Stay still," she whispers, using the villain’s blood to warm her frozen hands. To the Oracle's horror, Zora treats the future destroyer of worlds like a stray pup—ordering him to cook, clean, and keep the fire burning. But as Vane’s shattered bones heal under her command, his gaze turns from lethal hatred to something far more dangerous. He was supposed to destroy the world, but now, he only wants to be the most powerful puppet in hers.

Stop it, I can’t take much more. It wraps around my waist in the morning, winds around my legs at noon, and by night, it slips right under my clothes—can’t shake it off. After a catastrophic research vessel accident in the Puerto Rico Trench, Elara thought her life was over. Instead, she woke up in a glowing, bioluminescent palace at the bottom of the world, kept as a "pet" by a creature who shouldn't exist. He is Kaelen—a colossal, silver-haired deity with golden slit pupils and endless, shimmering tentacles that never want to let her go. He tells her she can only breathe through his essence; to leave him is to embrace certain death. But as his heated coils wrap tighter around her each night, Elara finds herself fearing his absence more than his possessive embrace. Is it survival, or have the whispers of the deep finally claimed her heart?