In the mist-shrouded valley of Oakhaven, seventeen-year-old Clara notices mysterious silver marks carved into the ancient treeline—marks the locals dismiss, but Clara knows are far from natural. When she confronts Julian, a mysterious youth from the ancient manor on the hill, she uncovers a secret kept for three hundred years: the symbols are warding seals keeping dark shadow-creatures at bay. When a seal is shattered at the eastern bridge, Clara and Julian must team up to protect the town and uncover who—or what—is trying to let the dark in.

🐺 THE MOONLIT PACKA Dark Romance Novel by Ambrosia NaidooTwo best friends. Two destined mates. A secret that could destroy them all.Lisa and Shayna have always been inseparable, living ordinary lives as adopted daughters, unaware of the darkness hidden in their bloodlines.But everything changes when they cross paths with the mysterious Moonlit Pack. Xavier, the dangerously handsome Alpha, recognises Lisa as his destined mate, but there's one problem: she can't stand him. Meanwhile, Shayna finds herself clashing with Edward, Xavier's mysterious brother, whose secrets are just as dangerous as his charm.As enemies become lovers and buried truths begin to surface, the girls discover that their past is far darker than they ever imagined.In a world of forbidden bonds, betrayal, and dangerous desires, love might be their greatest weakness—or their only salvation.Some bonds are written in blood. Others are written in desire.

BITTERSWEET TASTEBy Ambrosia NaidooCHAPTER ONE: THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE RAINSome people enter your life like a beautiful mistake. Others arrive like a warning you should have listened to. The first time I saw Dante De Velante, he was standing beneath a streetlight in the rain, looking like the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about and daughters secretly hoped to meet anyway. He wore black from head to toe, his dark hair damp against his forehead, and his expression carried the kind of coldness that made strangers lower their eyes before he even looked at them. He was beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair, with sharp features, a strong jaw, and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow whatever light dared approach them. There was something dangerous about him, something that made the air around him feel heavier, as though the world itself knew better than to disturb his peace. But the strangest part wasn't his appearance. It was the fact that, when our eyes met across the crowded street, he looked at me as though he had been searching for me for years. Then he turned away, stepped into a waiting black car, and disappeared into the night. I should have forgotten him. I should have gone home, made myself a cup of tea, and continued pretending my life was ordinary. Instead, three hours later, I would find his photograph inside an envelope on my bedroom floor, accompanied by a warning that would change everything I thought I knew about my family, his family, and the dangerous space between us. My name is Shayna Alvarez, and before that rainy Thursday evening, I believed the worst thing that could happen to a person was discovering that the life they had carefully built was not the life they had actually been living. I was nineteen, studying literature at a university in the heart of Bellarosa, a city famous for its ancient cathedrals, expensive restaurants, narrow streets, and families who had been wealthy for so long that they treated money like an inherited language. Bellarosa was beautiful when the sun shone. Its buildings glowed golden beneath the afternoon light, flowers spilled from balconies, and the air smelled of fresh bread and coffee. At night, however, the city became something else. Shadows stretched between old buildings, rain turned the cobblestones black, and every closed door seemed to guard a secret. I had always preferred the city after dark because there was something comforting about the way the night allowed people to hide. That evening, I was walking home from the little bookshop where I worked part-time, holding my coat closed against the cold and silently regretting my decision to wear shoes that looked lovely but were entirely useless in the rain. My phone vibrated for the fourth time in ten minutes. My older sister, Camila, had been messaging me. CAMILA: Where are you? ME: Walking home. CAMILA: In this weather? Shayna, please tell me you took an umbrella. ME: I took an umbrella. CAMILA: And where is it? I glanced at the useless, broken umbrella hanging from my wrist. ME: Emotionally, it is with me. Her reply arrived almost immediately. CAMILA: I swear you are going to be the death of me. I smiled despite myself and slipped the phone into my pocket. Camila had been worrying about me ever since our grandmother died six months earlier. Before that, our little family had been held together by our grandmother's quiet strength and her endless supply of strange sayings. She had believed that certain people carried storms inside them, that some doors were better left unopened, and that the truth had a way of finding you even when you spent your entire life running from it. In her final weeks, she had become particularly obsessed with one name: De Velante. Whenever the name appeared on television or in the newspaper, she would grow silent. Once, when I had asked why, she had gripped my wrist so tightly that her fingers left pale marks against my skin. "Promise me something, Shayna," she had whispered. "Anything, Nonna." "If a De Velante ever comes looking for you, you run." I had laughed because I thought she was being dramatic. Our grandmother had always been theatrical, especially when she was tired or frightened, but she had not laughed with me. Her eyes had filled with something I had never seen in them before. Fear. "Promise me," she repeated, and so I had promised. It had seemed like a harmless request from an old woman who had lived long enough to collect a lifetime of regrets. I never imagined I would have to remember it. A gust of wind pushed rain beneath the awning of a closed restaurant, and I hurried toward the nearest street corner. That was when I saw him again. Dante De Velante stood beside a black car parked across the street, one hand resting on the open door. Two men in dark suits stood nearby, speaking quietly. He wasn't listening to them. His attention was fixed on a woman who had approached him from the pavement. She wore a cream-colored coat .