If You Come Softly Audiobook Novels & Stories

“Come, come with us.” The voices are getting louder. As it is getting heavier and stronger. The more that he struggles and the more that he tries to get it off of him. “Why don’t you come? Why won’t you leave? Come with us, be with me.” Their provoking continues as their voices are in a mixed tone of gentle, soft, deep, shallow, strong, and seductive. It’s echoing unto his mind as the voice giggles with the tone of a sinister embrace and a devil’s taunting desire.

She waved her hand, the stillness she had caused in the soldiers within and outside the White fort left the men like a spirit, and life and locomotion returned to their bodies for they all fell. "Just one more death," Rose said, slightly turning to face her sisters, "and it's all over." After all, the rest of her trouble was currently on this land. They found the Baron close to the see with a mixture of men and whispers numbering in a million. Claire, Kathryn, Violet, Gold, and Crystal first appeared spaced out before their enemies, then an army of tormented and haunted whispers appeared behind them, and Rose materialized before her party.

I added softly. "Do you still love her?"

It became a stage. Her spine straightened. Her breath hitched—shallow, quick. And then the crowd ahead parted. He was there. No shadows this time. No distance. Just him. The man from the bookstore. He stepped into view like he’d always belonged to the night—like it had sculpted him from its stillness, summoned him from patience and need. The ghost behind glass. The storm she had spent months trying not to name. He walked toward her—not with violence, but with certainty. A quiet, devastating grace. Like gravity doesn’t ask. It just pulls. The air around him shimmered with restraint. With the unbearable tension of something that hasn’t broken—yet.

The semi-closed door opened once again, and Spencer strode in. His voice was not loud, but it had such a sense of authority it made an unignorable impact. The room suddenly fell deathly quiet.

“Psychological studies mostly.” His smile fades slightly. “Fiction?” “Oh. Right.” I clear my throat. “Yes. Fiction too.” “Favourite novel?” Why was this suddenly feeling like an oral exam? I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Gone Girl.” The interviewer goes silent and just stares at me. Then he finally says. “Interesting choice for a library focused on family and community engagement.” Right. What I mentioned was an erotic murder thriller. Terrible choice for the family and community.

back into the toxic desires. “Let her in.” His deep voice rumbled through his chest, making me resist the urge to shiver, almost delightfully under it. It was a strange roughness, a guttural sound my ears heard, but set my body humming, like it was the sweetest of harmonies. Just as I let out a deep breath, the doors opened smoothly, no cringing creaks to here as someone stepped forwards. The sound of soft and light footsteps told me it was a girl .. perhaps Viviane.

“Even when part of me wants to be held instead.” My voice doesn’t shake. That surprises me. “I’m telling you this because I don’t want to repeat it here,” I finish. “I don’t want to default to strength if what I actually need is softness.” The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s deliberate. He takes a moment—not because he’s unsure, but because he’s choosing precision. “Thank you for trusting me with that,” he says finally. “And for not presenting it as a demand.” I feel something in my chest loosen.

Softened. “Come here,” he said quietly. I hesitated for a second. Then I sat beside him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body. Close enough to hear his breathing. His hand lifted, brushing lightly along my arm. Slow. Careful. Like he was still asking. Not taking. My breath caught slightly. “This is still very much a bad idea,” I whispered. “And yet you’re still not stopping me,” he said softly. I swallowed. I wasn’t. I couldn’t.

His ever-so-soft-spoken affirmative question perplexed me into a new torrent of awaiting tragedy. Frowning and shuddering, I countered, "See what?" Gesturing his spare—right stout arm over at the present—other people: his men, who were accompanying him, those who stood not very far from him; Though closer to him, he countered back, his voice as sweet as a coated candy: How could he be this calm and use sweet-coating words in such monstrous circumstances? I shivered in the cold, inclement weather. I was disoriented. "I did not come here from another side of the country in a hurry this instant to get back home empty-handed.” Contrary to his blazing eyes, his voice was soft. “You'll be coming w