Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

I answered flatly. He sat down on the chair in front of me, and as he nearly pulled his own hair out of frustration, I could see it visibly in his eyes. His white neck and face were also crimson red. Oscar is handsome. He's tall, has a fair complexion, with a pointed nose and thin lips. He also has those pairs of foxy eyes. His hair is semi-shaven and his body is a bit bulky. Maybe because he's a basketball player. It's just that the reason why I don't like him—that's why we broke up last week—is that he's forcing me to have sex with him. He almost laid his damn hand on me. Fortunately, Peter and my other friends came.

Torque explains as he types like a maniac on his computer and an image appears of Cole and some shmuck at a dinner table. "Who the hell is that?" Max asks. "His name is Craig Delula. He is a notorious criminal. About twenty years ago he was more of a middle man, now he helps run Cole's business. This guy is like the biggest piece of shit there is, rumor is he has a son in prison for something he did, made his son take the fall."

His eyes—those terrible, pale eyes—glowed faintly in the dim light. King Valerian was the embodiment of a warrior king—tall, broad-shouldered, and carved from muscle and discipline. His physique was built not by luxury but by centuries of battle, every line of his body honed like a weapon. Unlike most alphas, his skin bore a faint, icy pallor, a reflection of the frozen lands he ruled, and his long, silver-streaked black hair flowed like the northern winds he commanded. But it was his eyes that set him apart—piercing pale grey, almost white, glowing faintly with the eerie calm of a predator who didn’t need to snarl to be feared. Even in silence, Valerian commanded a room, a man of both chill

I sighed and grabbed my phone and typed his name in the search bar. My hands trembled against the screen of my phone. Ivan Volkov. Head of the Russian Mafia boss. I had heard news about him; how could I forget his name? He had come to New Orleans months ago to settle a score with an enemy in New York City. It was a bloodbath as the war went on. He didn't go back after; no one knows why; no one knows what he's planning. All people knew was that he was dangerous, and I just had him in the coffee shop?

his eyes were on mine. “Worry me! What if you go to prison Dimitri?” “I won’t,” his voice was strong. “You don’t know that!” “I didn’t do anything, Harper please believe me. Alexander is our friend. He had to run from Moscow and he needed someone to talk to. There’s no fucking way I would have tried to kill him like come on!” He shouted. “You know me Harper! Right! You know me!” His voice was getting louder. I put my hand on his chest.

I came alive, gasping as I felt a horrible pain in my side. I instantly knew it was Dominique. Nothing else would have caused me such pain as soon as I awoke. I closed my eyes and reached out for her. I found her mind was closed off to the world as she was unconscious and dreaming. I delved into her mind and watched as she dreamed of running free through the woods, but she wasn’t in human form. Instead, a beautiful black and white wolf was running free. The sunlight hit her fur and made a striking contrast. The black fur looked like it had blue streaks running through it, while the white fur glistened like snow in the early morning light. She was light and dark all in one.

Afterall, they are all on his payroll. I eventually find Dante outside near the pool lounge area, stretched casually against one of the cushioned chairs with a half-empty beer in one hand and a copy of Crime and Punishment resting open across his lap. The late afternoon sunlight catches against his dark hair and sharp features, making him look unfairly beautiful in a way that instantly irritates me. Who knew he is a fan of Fyodor Dostoevsky. The moment he notices me approaching, he sighs heavily and shuts the book closed.

“You are American, mooncalf, get over it. You may have Russian blood, but you were born in the land of the fat, obnoxious and complacent.” “I am glad you think so highly of my heritage,” Anya snapped. She stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms. The engaged in a death glare match. “Enough, the both of you. I have had a long day’s work of herding animals and tending the trees, and I came home seeking peace, not squabbling,” Dmitri said. He sat beside the stove and began perusing his worn illicit copy of Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and the Margarita, bought from a black market in Moscow.

The cover wasn’t familiar, but it was also scuffed and torn. A shudder rolled through me at the book’s mistreatment, but by the many dog-eared pages, it was much loved. “Tolstoy?” I asked as I read the author’s name. In my hands was one of Tolstoy’s greatest novels, and one I could admit I’d never read—War and Peace. I looked up at him but he was back in his shadow, talking to Marco, though his eyes never left me. I flipped open the pages, happy to have something to read again, since my unfinished book was somewhere in my bag that they’d done who knows what with. I greatly missed reading and was desperate for anything to help get my head out of my present situation.

Lana points to a page on the journal, “Le destructeur de tous et de ses proches, la mort, la guerre et la Pestilence, récolteront la destruction de tous. Le sacrifice de l'humanité sera son champion. Si l'amour et la bonté prévalent, le monde sera sauvé. Si la mort et l'avidité réussissent, la fin sera un nouveau commencement rempli de mort, d'assujettissement et de destruction.” I interpret it out loud, “The destroyer of all and her kin, death, war, and Pestilence, shall reap the destruction of all. Humanity's sacrifice shall be its champion. Should love and goodness prevail, the world will be saved. Should death and greed succeed, the end shall be a new beginning filled with death, subjuga