Eugene Onegin Novel Novels & Stories

*Being fed dog food meant he was being oppressed by their love. The couple turned my face towards him. "Why are you in Italy anyway?" Vivianne couldn't help but ask. "I would like to know as well." Russell seconded, both looking at Eugene like he was invading. Truly, he was. Raising his hand to his chest, he let out a dramatic sigh. "Neither of you missed me?" He asked dramatically, like he was crying. Russell looked at his girlfriend's face, who shrugged her shoulders. "I'm hurt." Eugene continued.

"She had green eyes." "She did." Galina set her cards face-down on the table. "Elena. She was from Novgorod originally. Came to Moscow at twenty-two for university and never left." A slight smile. "Vladmir saw her across a lecture hall and that was the end of him. He used to say she ruined him for every sensible decision he ever made afterward." She paused. "He meant it as a compliment." Roman had gone quiet in the way he went quiet when something in a room required it. He was looking at Nikolai.

That's all it ever will be. I cried until I had swollen eyes before deciding to go out to the garden. I wanted to be alone for a while. I need to figure out a way to make this marriage work because Eugene doesn't care. He doesn't know the first thing of love or happiness. Eugene doesn't care. He plays with people's emotions as if it's only some toys he could throw around all day long. I'm sick of it!

By the time I finally closed my eyes to sleep, the frustration was gone, replaced by a dangerous, exciting anticipation for the morning. Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, Eugene closed his bedroom door and turned the lock, the sharp sound echoing like a final, desperate boundary between him and the girl down the hall. He leaned heavily against the wood, his forehead resting against the cold surface as he stared down at his own trembling hands.

She took a breath and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Still silence. Finally, her hand closed around the handle, and she pushed open the heavy oak door without waiting for an invitation. The scent of warm cedarwood and spiced parchment greeted her first—Eugene’s scent. It was rich, masculine, enticing and familiar. He sat behind a broad desk of books and scrolls piled around him. A single glass of whiskey sat untouched near his hand. His head was bent as he read something, his eyes scanning the page with furrowed brows.

Ophelia’s POV: The double doors of the banquet hall clicked shut behind us. My hands trembled so violently that I forced my fingers closed into a tight fist. “What are you going to do with him?” I demanded, my voice coming out in a sharp, breathless whisper. Eugene didn't stop walking. He merely glanced back at me over his shoulder, his dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth, fixed in a cold, calculating mask. “Why?” Eugene asked, his voice dripping with sudden sarcasm. “So that you can go and save him too?”

She says to the man. "Hmm," he hums. Something makes him smile. "I'm an author by profession. It's a professional hazard to beat life into my readers who are like yourself." Eugene says as Ravine smiles in a shaky manner. "Do you want to feel alive?" "More than this?" Eugene nods at her. "I'm taking my clothes off. If you don't want to follow me, just don't." Proceeding to take his clothes off, Eugene stands up naked in front of her. Suddenly, Ravine felt embarrassed but something in her told her that she would like to get naked as well.

Eugene’s expression darkened visibly. The anger in him became impossible to hide. Ruby noticed immediately. She could feel the tension radiating off him even without him saying a word. But despite standing right beside her… Eugene still refused to look at her. His thoughts were somewhere else entirely. On Irene. On Arnold. On jealousy he could no longer bury properly. And somehow, that hurt Ruby more than his cruelty sometimes did. She was his mate. Yet another woman still occupied his mind. Desperate for his attention, Ruby leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss against Eugene’s cheek.

the host called out. Eugene stood up and made his way toward the stage. His posture was impeccable, exuding the elegance and confidence of someone raised in a privileged family. With sharp features and piercing eyes, his mere presence commanded attention. After taking the box from the host, Eugene glanced in a particular direction. Many in the audience whispered to each other, wondering who had caught his eye. "Did he just look over here?" "You must be imagining it." "No, I’m sure of it! I just don’t know who Mr. Ford was looking at. Whoever it is, if he’s interested, they’re practically guaranteed a life of luxury."

He looked at Elian — this man who had written his interior in a novel and read it back to him at a kitchen table on a Portuguese island, without drama, without ceremony, just as the accurate description of a thing. "One hand around his coffee cup," Dante said. "The other resting on the table." "Yes," Elian said. "Close but not touching," Dante said. "Yes," Elian said. Dante put his hand on the table. He moved it across the manuscript, across the three hundred and forty pages of the thing that had grown here — across the garden novel, the Bucharest novel, the Euler novel, the love story novel — and put it over Elian's hand. "Close," Dante said.