He pinned me against the wall, his hand on my throat and his lips on my neck. 'Run,' he said. 'I'll just drag you back.' I should hate him. I'm terrified of him. So why does my body betray me every time he whispers my name? He warned me once: "This city protects me, not you." Now I believe him. When I went to the police to escape Aleksandr Markov's relentless obsession, my sister was framed and locked up. When I tried to run, he bought my workplace and became my boss. When I begged him to let me go, he whispered in my ear with his lips pressed to my neck: "You're mine, My little dove. Struggle all you want-I'll keep you until you stop fighting... or until you break." But the scariest part? The longer I'm trapped in his cage, the less I want to leave. A billionaire villain. A powerless heroine. A game of power, obsession, and desire where losing means surrendering everything-including your heart.

⚠️ Content Warning ⚠️ This story is not safe. It's addictive, explicit, and threaded with triggers that bite. It drags you through obsession, trauma, and the kind of desire that hurts as much as it heals. If you can't handle morally grey men, broken women, or the thin line between love and ruin, stop here. If you can... keep reading. I thought monsters only lived in the dark, until I was framed for a murder I didn't commit and dragged into a world that felt darker than any nightmare. Where he was. Where he's always been. Watching me. He doesn't love. He claims what's his and destroys anyone who touches it. I tried to run from the shadow that haunts me, but somehow, every time, I end up running straight back to him. He's danger wrapped in devotion. My curse. My obsession. My undoing. I should fear him. And I do. But fear doesn't stop the pulse between my thighs. Or the way my heart betrays me when he whispers my name like a threat and a prayer. They call it madness. I call it survival. Because in his darkness, I stopped being hunted. I became the desire. He's the shadow I was meant to run from, but the one who left his hunger burning deep inside me. Big news! 🎉 Stalked To Be Desired and Damned is officially available on Amazon! This story you've loved is now in paperback-ready to sit beautifully on your bookshelf. Go grab your copy now and own a piece of the story! https://a.co/d/02d5Mwtq

He had everything a man could want. Money,Power,Women...just name it. In Abuja's elite circles, his name alone sent whispers across luxury halls and glass towers. Men envied him. Women dreamed of him. He never needed to chase ,the world bent to his will. She wasn't the type to stand out in a crowd. Not the loudest. Not the flashiest. Not the one dripping in gold or painted in colors that demanded attention Her life was simple. A modest home in a middle-class part of Abuja, mornings filled with the chatter of children at school. Her simplicity was his undoing,And he was ready to burn everything, everyone even her peace just to make her his. Not because of beauty that glittered Not because of words that flattered But because of something rarer...

"What are you doing here" She questions eyeing him while walking towards her closet to pull off the clothes from the party. The prince is sitted on the bed, fingers fisting the sheets as he stares at her his Adam's apple bobbing from each ragged breath. "I'm here for you" He states his voice raspy. stunned she turns around so fast she stumbles "Here for me" the laugh that escapes her is unintentional. "Excuse me your highness but please get out" Now with a slightly colder voice she tells him trying to be polite. He freezes, eyes darkening at her words before wetting his lips "I'm not going anywhere, now come here. I want you" He says eyes fixed on her and she lets out a breath her glare begining to form. "No" The word escapes her as she turns to walk into the closet. "I'm here as your husband" The prince mutters and she freezes, her own fingers tightening over the silk dress she has on before she whips her head to stare at him. when her family would visit the palace she'd always leave with one name and that is 'His wife' with whispers within and outside the palace crawling over her as they refered to her as the 'Prince's wife' 'Judge's wife' but she'd brushed it all aside deciding it was best to address such issues when they are about to happen and unknown to her it came sooner than later. Their wedding was set to take place in a few days and she felt only calm towards it only for her to wait...wait and be told he's getting married to another and that she's out of the equation. Broken, confused and cold is what she feels but she lets it all go thinking maybe they were never meant to be. what happens a few years later when she's summoned home by her father, she introduces her man only to get rejected and this time she's told she'll marry the prince as his 'Second' wife his Second choice and this is where she catches on fire after all 'What remains of them'. Will she marry the prince. Not when he's one hell of a mad man. Them

Jadelola Adebayo. She wasn't royalty. She wasn't billionaire-born. But she was brilliant with her hands, her designs slipping across Lagos society like silk - literally. She told herself it was only business. She told herself she would present the sketches, bow politely, and leave. But destiny has a way of rearranging careful plans. Because somewhere in the palace, descending from his own convoy with the slow arrogance of a man who had never been denied, was Prince Damilola Damien Adediran. And when his path collided with hers, Lagos itself seemed to pause. The city would remember their story. The blogs would feast on whispers of it. But in this moment, the world had no idea. All that existed was the dangerous pull between a woman who thought herself safe within marriage, and the Prince who had already chosen her - the one he would name Arike. She scowled, though her pulse betrayed her. "I told you before. I'm married. I don't belong to you." He stepped closer, closing the distance in unhurried strides until her back grazed the wall. His hand lifted, not touching, just hovering by her cheek. "Say it again, Arike. Louder this time. Maybe then I'll believe you." Her breath caught. "You're shameless." "Mm." His grin widened, vulgar and beautiful all at once. "Shameless enough to imagine what your lips taste like when you're angry. Shameless enough to want to hear you gasp my name the way you're gasping now." "Stop." Her palms pressed against his chest. Firm muscle beneath the fabric. Too warm. Too alive. He groaned, deep and rough, the sound vibrating under her touch. "Every time you touch me, Arike, you make it worse. Do you know that?" "I'm not-" she stammered, but he cut her off, voice dipping lower. "You think I don't see the way your pulse jumps when I look at you? The way you bite your lip when you're trying to hold back? Don't lie to me, ìfé mi. Your body betrays you

A ghost bride. A mysterious duke. A murder that started it all. (cover art by Zamora)

Following the wealthy and prestigious hidden society in Nigeria and their children who attend Islanders High. The third book of the Islanders series (#1 the act, #2 Previous Engagement,#3 Islanders) Marcella is all grown now and is attending Islander high with the rest of the Islander kids. Keep reading to experience the lifestyle and drama that comes with being wealthy Do the Islanders exist? Yes, they do! And being rich is not enough to be identified as an Islander

"That's good to know but you're still getting punished." He smacked my ass. "I want you to count and if you mess up I'm gonna start over." I didn't respond. "Adira, you're already getting 20 hits. Do you really wanna make that 40 by ignoring me?" He asked. "No." I replied nonchalantly. "Count" He went down on my ass once more. "1" I counted tears building up in my eyes. 19 hits later. My ass was red for sure and my pussy was dripping wet down my thigh. He rubbed my ass and pulled my panties down. "Look at how wet you are bambina. You're a little pain slut aren't you." He hummed. 𝗧𝗼𝗽 𝗥𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 #113 in bwwm #164 in wmbw #113 in strongfemalelead #850 in bdsm

They say "curiosity killed the cat". I say "naivety killed the flower".