Novels by Kudoz Penn

I wake up to silence. Not the kind that presses in, suffocates, or chokes. No. This one is entirely different. This is the silence of having no expectations, the kind of quiet that happens when no one is watching you.Silas has been away for days. Days of absolutely nothing. Just me and myself.I should feel free. I should feel relieved and excited, but I don't. I feel incredibly restless, like I'm waiting on something I'm not even sure about. I stretch in the massive bed. The sheets are cold, and they don't smell like him anymore. I changed them yesterday. I don't know why I did it, but I deeply regret it now.I should do something. Go somewhere, explore the city in a different style this time. I have his black card. That's why he gave it to me, right? But I don't want to. I don't want to do a single thing except lie here in this massive, empty room and wait for him to come back.I miss him, and I hate it. I hate that I miss him. I've only known him for a few weeks. I shouldn't miss

Silas stares out the window as the car glides through the streets of Monaco. Up ahead is the Beaufort Estate-an old, lavish stone mansion surrounded by cypress trees.He has been here before. Over fifteen years ago, when Claire was alive, and he was a different man. He feels the weight of the past pressing down on him, the ghost of Claire mingling with the echoes of who he used to be. He pushes it away. He cannot afford to feel anything right now.The car rolls to a stop, and a footman opens the door.Silas steps out. Dressed impeccably in a charcoal black suit, he looks completely untouchable. He does not wait to be greeted. He walks up the stone stairs, his footsteps quiet but deliberate.The massive double doors swing open.Mathias Beaufort stands at the entrance in a crisp white suit. With silver hair and dead, cold eyes, he looks like a man who owns the world-and in many, many ways, he does."Bienvenue, mon fils, Silas, my son," Mathias says, his voice pitched, smooth and culture

The intercom buzzes. Silas barely moves, pressing the release button. The heavy oak door clicks open.A man in his mid-thirties steps across the threshold. Tariq is meticulously dressed in midnight blue suit and a crisp white shirt, radiating the unnerving stillness of absolute loyalty. For ten years and counting, he has served as Silas’s Monaco assistant–he’s also the gatekeeper, fixer, and snoop. He knows everything, where all the bodies are buried, yet remains centered, keeping his gaze lowered, and he doesn’t speak unless spoken to.Outside, the sunset seeps in through the windows, painting the room in a heavy, bruised gold. It illuminates the massive mahogany desk, the dark leather chairs, and rows of books no one has touched in years. The room is built for power, suffocating silence, and decisions that ruin men and dynasties.Silas swivels slowly in his chair, pulling from a thick cigar, his eyes tracking the curling smoke. Tariq stands perfectly still across the desk, scrolling

At 41,000 feet, the loudest noise inside the Gulfstream G550 is the clinking of ice against crystal and whispered chattering from his men. Silas sits in the leather armchair, a glass of bourbon resting in his hand. He hasn’t taken a single sip. The ice melting, turning the amber liquid warm and diluted, but his grip on the glass remains tight. He stares out the large, signature oval windows at the clouds, white and endless. He’s lost in thought, his mind drifting far away from the aircraft, entirely consumed by the boy he left behind in Chicago. He’s made this journey a hundred times when expanding his kingdom and stacking money were all that mattered. Monaco. Milan. D.C. Name it. The world is his territory, his playground. But this time, the transatlantic distance feels like a load on his chest, heavy and real. This time he isn’t just traveling; he’s leaving someone behind. He has been holding his phone for an hour or so. He wants to call Luca. He doesn’t. He shouldn’t, but the ur

I don't answer. I don't know what to say to that level of dominance. I just turn in his arms to face him. He's already looking at me, his eyes dark and satisfied."Buenos dias, beautiful," he says. "That's how you wake me up?" I ask, my voice still raspy, half-laughing despite the mess between us.He kisses my forehead and nuzzles deeply into my hair. "I wanted to say goodbye properly.""You have a strange fucking way of saying goodbye."We lie there for a moment, the quiet returning to the room, though my heart is still racing."You're going today," I say softly.He's silent. That's how I know I'm right."Si. In the evening," he finally admits. "I have things to handle this morning.""How long will you be gone?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach."Two, maybe three weeks," he says, his voice flat. "It might take longer."I nearly jump out of bed, the post-orgasm haze instantly vanishing. "That's too long," I say, my voice rising. "I can't be alone here for that long.""You won't be

The house is quiet. Too quiet. I haven't seen Silas since yesterday. I've been pacing the bedroom for hours, like a caged animal. I've rearranged the nightstand three times. I've even folded the clothes Silas left on the chair—something I never do, smoothing out the dark fabric just to have an excuse to touch something that belongs to him.I'm bored and restless. My skin feels tight, itching with anticipation. I'm counting the seconds until he comes back. I don't know what to do with myself. I hate the waiting. I hate the silence.I change the sheets. I don't know why. They're not dirty, but I need something to do to burn off this frantic energy. I strip the bed, wrestle with the heavy corners of the mattress, and smooth out the fresh wrinkles. I step back, breathing a little heavier. It looks perfect.I shower. The water is hot, punishingly hot. I stand under it for too long and let it scald my skin, letting the steam fill the massive glass. I think about him. I think about the dark,