Novels by Elijah Greene

The snowfall didn’t let up the next day. If anything, it came down thicker, heavier; blanketing the estate in sheets of white.They returned to the grand Dostoevsky mansion. Zane didn’t leave his room.Not because he couldn’t, but because every time he considered it, something in his chest tightened. The dream from the night before had burrowed deep, like a splinter he couldn’t pull out. The shape in the window. The scent and taste of ash.And the snow. Always the snow.He was buttoning his shirt when the door clicked open. There was no preceeding knock. Just the slow, calculated entrance of someone who owned the space.It could only be one person.It was Andrei.His coat was damp with melted snow, his dark hair curling slightly from the wetness. He shut the door behind him with a soft click and leaned against it like a man blocking an exit.“You didn’t show up for breakfast.”Zane didn’t look at him. “Didn’t realize it was mandatory.”“It is now.”There was a certain sharpness in the

The cold wasn’t biting so much as it was consuming. It was the kind of cold that didn’t bite at your skin but slipped under it, entering into your bones and soul. Snow covered the evergreen trees outside like sugar on pastries, the skies were a pale blur of lavender and silver.Zane sat by the window in the upstairs library, a thick wool throwover slung around his shoulders. The fire crackled behind him, but he didn’t move closer. He watched the snow with distant eyes, a cup of untouched black coffee cooling in his hands. The silence in the lodge today wasn’t comforting. Wasn't soothing. It was deliberate. Suspended. Like the screeching calm after an explosion.Katherina hadn’t been seen since that explosive night two days ago.Neither had Joana.The house had gone still in a way that reeked of calculation.Andrei, on his part, had barely left Zane’s side. It was a dangerous thing. But not in the way Zane once thought—the threat of violence or captivity. But now, it was something subt

The snow had started again by morning. Not heavily, but in a hush, a thin layer of frost brushing over the glass panes of the estate windows. Zane stood at the edge of the balcony adjoining Andrei’s room, he stood wrapped in one of his robes. The steam from his coffee mingled with the pale mist of his breath. Behind him, the warmth of the suite fed by the cackling embers in the fire place gave comfort to his aching body. Andrei slept still, finally. He slept deeply.Last night hadn't ended in fire, there was no explosion of canal desire. The night had ended in quiet. In the undoing of something that had stretched too tight for too long. Zane hadn't expected softness, not from Andrei. But that was what he’d received. And that was what unsettled him more than anything else as he stood in the cold of the morning.Andrei Dostoevsky had held him like a lifeline. Like he was a part of him. Now Zane watched the snow fall and wondered what came next.He didn't have long to wonder.There was

The next morning, the air was still heavy with the scent of candle wax, sweat, and sex. The stone floor beneath him—them still felt cold, the velvet drapes a cushion between the hard, cold floor and his body. Somewhere, far off, morning had begun to rise, but this room—this confessional as Andrei had called it—remained suspended in time. The candles had burned low and melted into shallow puddles on the iron candle stands, they flickered faintly almost spent and exhausted by their vigil.Andrei was gone.Zane’s limbs ached. His muscles remembered every motion, every grip and grasp, every moan, every gasp, they remembered every shudder of surrender. But it was the absence beside him that truly stung. No warmth left in the spot where Andrei had once knelt. No trace, except for the feeling of a kiss Zane could still feel on his mouth, the lingering his scent on his skin.He dressed slowly. His shirt—torn. Belt—missing. His jeans were rumpled, boots abandoned near the door. He found his re

Zane didn't sleep that night. He paced his room like a panther forced to remain in a cage, his shirt clung to his skin, his heart a constant drum in his chest. Andrei's restraint echoed in his mind like a slap, it was a denial of self he had never witnessed before. How could someone want something so much, have it amd still not take it? "Not yet." The words had burned. Had left a hole in him. They had reminded him that he was still playing a game he couldn't control—one where the rules were written by Andrei Dostoevsky, and the consequences were his to decide. By morning, the rain had lightened to a drizzle, casting a silver hue over the estate. Zane still couldn't get over how magical this place looked in all weathers. He showered but didn’t dress to impress. Simplicity was the armor he chose now—black jeans, loose grey shirt, combat boots. It was a declaration. He didn’t need silks or lace to haunt Andrei’s mind. He was already there. A knock came at his door. Mikhail. "Breakf

Zane woke up to the scent of rain and freshly cut grass, it still clung to the stone walls outside filling the air around the estate with it's fresh green smell. He found it refreshing. He didn’t remember falling asleep, only that the memories of the other night. The sound of Andrei’s voice. The previous night, him locking the door behind him as he entered into the study. He had wanted Andrei to make a move. He wanted him to react, physically, needed him to. The slow-burn of whatever sick game they were playing was now eating him alive. He lay still now, eyes on the ceiling, sheets tangled around his hips. An ache, low and heavy in his core.Andrei’s voice still haunted him."Good boy."He blinked slowly, and for a second, Zane wasn’t sure if he was more angry or more aroused. Perhaps both.A tray had been delivered—breakfast. He left it untouched. The coffee grew cold.He got up, showered, dressed in black again. The color suited him now, like a camouflage in a house made from blood