Novels by T.K

The warmth of a quiet morning bathed Rhys and Denera in soft golden light as they sat together on a wide sofa in their tastefully decorated living room. The chaos that had consumed their lives for months felt like a distant memory. Denera rested her head on Rhys’s chest, his arm draped protectively around her. Their hands were intertwined, fingers lightly brushing against each other—a silent vow to never let go. "I still can’t believe we’re here," Denera murmured, her voice carrying a blend of disbelief and gratitude. Rhys tilted her chin up, his piercing gaze meeting hers. "We fought for this, Denera. We’ve been through hell, but we came out stronger. I don’t just love you—I’m in awe of you." She smiled, her cheeks tinged with a soft blush. "And I’m in awe of us. Let’s promise to never let anything or anyone come between us again." Rhys leaned down and kissed her gently. "Not a chance. We’re unbreakable now." The two sat in silence for a moment, basking in the tranquility

The morning sun bathed the city in a golden hue as a soft breeze carried the fragrance of blooming flowers. A week has passed and normalcy has somewhat returned. It was a perfect day, fitting for an event of such grandeur. The wedding of Paul and Rachel-the moment everyone had been waiting for had finally arrived. The venue was a masterpiece: one of the most magnificent halls in the city, renowned for its towering crystal chandeliers and intricately carved marble pillars. From the outside, the building glistened with a mix of modern architectural elegance and timeless charm. Inside, the hall was transformed into a dreamland. A canopy of white roses and orchids draped across the ceiling, interspersed with tiny, twinkling lights that mimicked a starry night. Golden chairs lined the aisle, their backs adorned with silk ribbons and floral arrangements. At the center, a raised platform housed an altar framed by cascading vines and glittering drapery. Guests began to arrive, dress

The dim light of Alex’s makeshift room flickered, casting shadows on the cracked walls and the scattered remnants of his old life. He sat on the edge of a wooden crate, methodically strapping his gear into place. His breaths were steady, but his eyes burned with purpose. Tonight was the night. This was what he had been training for—the moment he would finally free Laurel and eliminate Jason. Alex picked up his blade, its polished steel glinting in the faint light. He ran his fingers over the edge, testing its sharpness. A small scar on his knuckle caught his eye—a reminder of all the battles he’d fought leading up to this. He glanced at the photo of Laurel taped to the wall, her smile a beacon of hope amidst his darkened world. “This is it,” he muttered to himself. “For you, Laurel.”With his weapons secured and resolve hardened, Alex stood, pulling his hood over his head. He left the room without a glance back, the door creaking shut behind him.---The screen went black, the t

The sound of tires crunching over the gravel driveway broke the stillness of the evening as Rhys and Denera pulled up to Gerald’s sprawling mansion. The mansion stood like a fortress, its grand columns illuminated by golden lights that cast long shadows across the well-manicured grounds. As their sleek black car came to a halt, the doors swung open, and the pair stepped out, their presence commanding the attention of everyone nearby.Rhys adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, his sharp features set in a calm but deadly expression. Beside him, Denera exuded quiet confidence, her heels clicking against the pavement as she moved. She wore a crimson trench coat, her eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of fury and satisfaction.The heavy front doors of the mansion creaked open, and Gerald emerged with his ever-present smirk plastered on his face. He was flanked by a small squad of armed guards, their weapons gleaming under the lights. Gerald was impeccably dressed, his dark green sui

The Anderson mansion was eerily quiet, the moonlight casting a pale glow over the scene of destruction. Ethan and Paul stood amidst the chaos, their eyes fixed on the lifeless bodies of Jackson and Sebastian sprawled across the bloodied garden. The heavy scent of iron lingered in the air, mixing with the faint rustle of leaves. Ethan’s chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breath, his shirt torn and stained with sweat and blood.Paul glanced at Ethan, concern etched on his face. "You good?" he asked, his voice low but steady.Ethan nodded, though exhaustion weighed on every inch of his body. He pulled out his phone, his hands trembling slightly, and dialed Sandra’s number. The ringing seemed to stretch on forever until her voice finally came through.“Ethan…” Sandra’s voice was weak, barely a whisper. Ethan’s stomach tightened. “Sandra, what happened? Are you okay?” he demanded, his tone laced with panic.There was a pause, and then she spoke again, her words strained. “Sebas

The Walton Mansion stood as a fortress of elegance, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, its high walls and elaborate architecture a testament to wealth and power. But tonight, the serenity of the estate was shattered. The elite strike team, led by Kiara, moved like shadows through the sprawling grounds, their movements silent yet deliberate.A muffled cry broke the stillness as one of the outer guards was taken down swiftly. Kiara stood in the shadows, her piercing gaze fixed on the mansion ahead. Her dark combat attire blended seamlessly with the night, and a wicked smile played on her lips. **This would be a night the Waltons would never forget.**“Move in,” she ordered, her voice low but commanding. Her team obeyed without hesitation, their precision and ruthlessness evident in every step. Inside the mansion, alarms blared as guards scrambled to defend their employer’s home. Shots were fired, echoing through the grand hallways, but the elite team was unrelenting. They moved w

Dawn’s pale light seeped through the mist that clung to the outer walls of the mystic estate, a fortress hidden deep in a forest of gnarled oaks. In the training fields beyond the ivy‐clad ramparts, dozens of figures sparred and drilled under the watchful eyes of masked instructors. Wooden dummies bore the scars of relentless blade practice; archers let fly endless arrows at distant targets; hand‐to‐hand combatants thrashed each other in measured sequences that rang with authority.Within the fortress walls, carved pathways of smooth black stone led to the Faceless Man’s private wing. At the end of one hallway, Amanda strode forward, her dark hair tied in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was set in a stern expression—eyes hard as polished obsidian. As she passed, armored trainees paused mid‐strike, bowed their heads, and whispered, “Mistress Amanda.” Their weapons lowered in respect, an unspoken pledge of loyalty.At the heavy iron door to the Faceless Man’s inner sa

Midnight’s hush lay over Damien Carter’s penthouse, the city’s glow a distant nebula beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. In the center of the opulent bedroom-turned-office, Damien sat at a sleek glass desk, three monitors flickering with the faces of his clandestine council: five men in shadowed suits, their features hidden by dim lighting and tight camera angles. A single pendant light above Damien cast his angular face in half shadow as he leaned forward, fingers steepled.The council’s leader, a voice like gravel stirred by a whisper, spoke first. “Report, Damien. Miss Lawson’s situation—status?”Damien offered a thin smile, tapping a folder stamped *Operation Deep Veil*. “Progressing as planned. I’ve delayed the final breach to lull her into false security. Immediate escalation would raise alarms at Lawson Industries. We can’t let her suspect internal betrayal.”A gruff voice—Councilman Rourke—snapped, “But weeks have passed. Our window is closing. Explain.”Damien leaned back, pa

Morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lancaster Industries’ executive suite, illuminating the rows of neatly organized files and the sleek mahogany desk where Silas Lancaster sat, head buried in quarterly projections. The hum of air conditioning and the distant murmur of staff beyond the glass walls formed the steady backdrop of corporate life.Silas’s pen scratched across line after line of numbers when the door to his office opened silently—a signal he’d come to recognize. He didn’t look up. “How can I help you?” he called, voice steady.Nancy slipped in, the soft click of her heels the only hint of her entry. “You have a visitor, sir.” She closed the door behind her with a gentle hush.At last, Silas raised his head. Nancy stood beside a young woman in her mid-twenties: tall, elegant, with chestnut hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. Her emerald-green dress hugged her curves, the silk fabric catching the light as she moved. A pair of pearl

The silk sheets pooled warmly around them as the last light of dusk filtered through the gauzy curtains of Damien’s penthouse bedroom. City lights glittered in the distance, a soft chorus of traffic and distant sirens underscoring the quiet intimacy of the room. Damien reclined against a tower of pillows, a tray balanced on his lap: two flutes of sparkling wine, a small plate of prosciutto-wrapped figs, and a pair of porcelain bowls holding vanilla-crème mousse.Lilian lay beside him, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. She’d slipped out of her blazer and undone her blouse’s top buttons; her face was luminous in the candlelight. “This was a wonderful idea,” she murmured, tracing the rim of her glass.“Only the finest for you,” Damien replied, his voice smooth as the wine. He offered her a fig, and she bit into it, closing her eyes at the burst of sweet juice. They laughed softly, trading stories of the day: Lilian’s briefing at the company and Damien’s lecture at a pr

The grandfather clock in the corner struck two in the morning, its chime rolling through the marble halls of Mat Lancaster’s private wing. Outside, a high wind rattled the leaded glass windows, stirring the potted palms that flanked the door. Inside, the heavy thump of leather on stone drowned out the storm’s whisper.Mat Lancaster stood shirtless beneath the harsh glare of overhead industrial lamps. His private gym—an expansive room of polished teak floors, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and rows of state-of-the-art equipment—felt like a cathedral to discipline. A full boxing ring rested in the center, its ropes creaking softly in the draft.But Mat paid no heed to the ring. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, fists balled, and struck the reinforced concrete wall with merciless force. Each punch echoed, sounding like a drumroll of anger. His knuckles reddened, sweat beading on his brow, trickling down his chest in warm rivulets.Again and again: wall, fist, wall, fist

Silas Lancaster’s penthouse greeted him with muted opulence: floor‐to‐ceiling windows framing a neon tapestry of the city, marble floors that gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier’s soft glow, and a living wall of ivy that whispered life into the modern aesthetic. He’d just returned from the day’s final meetings—investor pitches, board consultations, and a late‐night strategy session. His tailored suit was draped over the banquette in the foyer, replaced now by a simple white T‐shirt and black training shorts.Descending the wide staircase to the main living area, he spotted Isaac—his chauffeur and confidant—standing by the panoramic windows, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the glittering skyline. Isaac’s crisp black jacket remained buttoned, gloves still clasped in his hand, as if he’d stepped off duty but couldn’t quite leave the evening behind.Silas approached, voice gentle. “Isaac?”The chauffeur started, blinking as though awakened from a dream. “Sir? I—uh, I’m fine.” He forced