OSM_1015

[Mature content. No rape]
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"Mr. Archer!" She hurried her footsteps after the cop, who seemed to have already memorized the way out of the small two-story house.

"It's Adrien, not Archer," he said, not bothering to turn around and look at her as he turned the door knob.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "We need to talk, " she said, following him out of the house and closing the door behind her.

"I had enough time to spend with a dunderhead like you," she heard him say, and she fumed.

"How dare you?!" She fisted her palm furiously as she saw him walk past the little gate. "You son of a chameleon!"....

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In a world where mythical creatures like werewolves, vampires, and elves exist alongside humans, a long-standing war has left humans living in fear and captivity. Elves, once thriving, have become extinct due to the ongoing conflict. Alicia, the last surviving elf, is raised by Mrs. Anderson, whom she believes to be her biological mother.

However, when Alicia confronts a man named Adrien, whom she calls Mr. Archer, tensions rise. Adrien's apparent disdain for Alicia triggers a fiery exchange. Unbeknownst to Alicia, her unique heritage as the last elf will soon become a central focus in a world where mythical beings and humans clash.

This story promises intrigue, conflict, and a journey of self-discovery for Alicia as she grapples with her identity and the ongoing strife between mythical creatures and humans.

Hunting Down the Last Elf

In the quiet stillness of the morning, Alicia stirred, her body instinctively stretching like a satisfied cat, arms reaching above her head as a soft sigh escaped her lips. She wasn't fully awake yet, still lingering in that delicious haze between sleep and consciousness. The warmth surrounding her was so soothing, so utterly comfortable, that for the first time in what felt like days, she had slept without tossing, without waking in the middle of the night. A rare kind of peaceful slumber.

A drowsy smile ghosted over her lips as she nestled deeper into the warmth, inhaling the faint scent of something unfamiliar yet oddly comforting—woodsy, minty, with the faintest trace of something clean, like fresh linen. Not my pillow, her groggy mind noted distantly, but the thought barely registered before something else did.

Her legs… She tried shifting, only to realize they were trapped, tangled in something—no, someone.

Tangled in Sheets