The Aftermath of Having Slept with the Villain - Chapter 139: Childhood sweetheart as ex-husband(28)(slight H)

What would you do if you found out you're really a dragon?What if you found out magic is real?What if the guy who just saved your life is actually really cute, has a big sword and runs a small business granting wishes?!Misha Long knew moving countries would be a big deal, but he had no idea how big until things start going wrong. Very wrong.But he isn't alone.By his side is the enigmatic Bran D'Arcy, magic master and sword slinger. For Misha, it's an exciting new world he's stumbled into.But for all the wonder and beauty in it there's a danger lurking in the magic, an old evil that won't just threaten him and those he loves, but the entire world.Oh, and he now has a tail.

Anne Allistair has long forgotten about romance since her failed marriage to Thomas Brown. Now she wants a simple life, one that doesn’t require her having her heart broken again. However, things take a wild turn when she walks into the office of her boss, Riccardo Antonelli. His charm is inescapable, even for Anne who’s heart sought no romantic affairs. Now caught in his web, Anne must make a choice; risk losing her job for the sake of her fragile heart, or remain the secret woman who shared a bed with her boss.

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”