Natasha Preston Broken Silence Novels & Stories

Natasha finally rose from the window seat and crossed to the bed, sliding between the cold sheets. The empty space beside her felt like an accusation. She lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening for footsteps that never came. When sleep finally claimed her, it was restless and thin, haunted by dreams of blood and silence and a mate who looked at her with eyes she no longer recognized.

"I can't do this anymore." Gideon’s eyes were cold as he leaned in. “Don’t breathe a word,” he warned. “You ruin me, you ruin yourself. Remember that.” The threat settled. He hadn’t just claimed her heart, he’d claimed her silence. And silence had a price. Speaking now could shatter the family she’d protected and ignite a war she couldn’t stop. Natasha called again. Emilia ignored it. Something shifted inside her, fragile and uncertain. She whispered, “Family... or the past,” and for the first time, she didn’t know which would win.

“Yes. Always has been.” Th‌e flashlight flickers once mor⁠e be‌fore dying. I’m left in total darkness‌. The hum of the spe‌aker sta‍rts again⁠, low a‌nd di‌storted. Then, through the static: ⁠“…⁠you d‍on’t really kn⁠o‍w w‌ha‌t‌ she is, do you?”‌ Preston’s voice. Calm. Mocking. ‍

"See this? He only wants ME. Why else do you think he ghosts you every night?" Then she pointed at the swing, eyes gleaming. "That swing you're so sentimental about? Yeah, we broke it in—with plenty of variety. You were just too busy being irrelevant to notice." I didn't say a word. Not one. Then came my voice—calm, sharp. "Escort her back to the manor. Restore everything here exactly the way it was." Some guards hesitated. One finally moved, stepped up, and gestured at Bianca—real polite.

The dark night had fallen. Around us, the chirping of crickets filled the silence, their song weaving through the darkness that enveloped the forest where we stood. It was quiet—deeply, almost unnervingly quiet. A gentle breeze began to stir, causing the old windows of the cabin to creak and groan as if whispering secrets long forgotten.

Without a single moment that might have suggested the thought cost him something. She wrote about the choice that followed. I made a decision in that infirmary that I want to be clearly understood: I was not broken. I was not defeated. I chose silence as a tool because I understood, with clarity, that a woman who could not be heard would not be watched. And a woman who was not watched could learn everything. She wrote about the warriors in the training yard. About Bram and Dex and the patrol gap she had timed to the second over four months of deliberate, patient observation.

Silas identified the man within twelve hours, the matter was handled in the basement level, and the estate returned to its routines with new encryption protocols on every electronic lock. But nothing returned to what it had been before the dark. Tobin felt it in the way Emeric looked at him across the breakfast table, a half-second longer than necessary. He felt it in the way their chess games had changed, each move carrying meanings that had nothing to do with strategy. The silence of the study had transformed from something tactical into something charged, the kind of silence that exists between two bodies that have stopped pretending.