Novel By Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

Just meals arriving at regular intervals, books appearing mysteriously on the table they had brought in for me and Nikolai walking in and out whenever he pleased like this was all perfectly normal. Psychopath. I turned a page in the novel resting on my lap, trying to focus on the words despite the restless energy crawling beneath my skin. Escape was all I thought about lately. But escaping from a heavily guarded Russian mafia mansion turned out to be significantly harder than I imagined. Who would have guessed? I sighed and stretched slightly on the sofa, adjusting another oversized black shirt I had stolen from Nikolai’s wardrobe days ago. Not stolen…Borrowed indefinitely. The door suddenly

I intend it to be, I don’t want any woman to come closer to it. I never understand what my destiny wants from me. I guess it wants me to turn into the very monster I loathed my whole life, My father, Boris. Despite how hard I tried to not become like my father, in the end, I realized I could never be a good man because Boris’s blood runs in my veins. I tried desperately but I couldn’t reject the fact that I'm Boris’s son. Author’s Note:- Hey guys, You’re gonna see a different side of NIKOLAI in this book, hope you’re ready.

image he worked so hard to maintain. I closed the closet, still grinning, and wandered into his bedroom. On his nightstand I found more books, all by Fyodor Dostoevsky: Crime and Punishment, Notes from Underground, The Idiot, White Nights. I picked one up and flipped through it. The pages were worn, corners folded and some lines underlined. He wasn't just pretending to like this stuff, he really was a superfan of Russian literature. I didn't believe it when he first told me, but now I believed it without a doubt.

The snow still fell outside the stone walls of the estate. It blanketed the estate in white silence, turning its violence white and its shadows soft. But inside the Dostoevsky household, nothing was quiet. The attempt on Andrei’s life had ignited a fire in the house—one that would burn slow, subtle, and deep.

He flipped over the front of the book to see the title. It was Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. “Well, that’s fitting,” B laughed and closed the book. He fell deeper into the recesses of the chair. He brought the glasses up to his face and thought, If this is what an estate man does, then let me be an estate man for just a couple of minutes while the whiskey does its work. B let Dostoyevksy’s words run through his mind like a new mantra — it’s life that matters… the process of discovering… the everlasting and perpetual process… — and slid the glasses onto his face.

I cannot stop when my fingers have danced on the black keyboard on the bed. My second novel’s character is named Eros Darwin — as the main character who has multiple personalities. I purposely gave Eros Darwin a psychopathic character in this novel; at least, he still lives in a world of fiction. “Eros,” I whispered as my fingers typed Eros’s name into the paragraphs on the flat screen. “Why is it so cold?” I touched the back of my neck because I felt something cold passing there and then spontaneously turned my face to the open balcony.

My mouth opened countless times, closing and opening, no, I couldn't accept that, so I was going to leave it explicitly. Oh yes, of course Christmas, I sold myself to Santa Claus, which was more than a doll I got, when I sold myself, Even though right now, all I wanted was a taste other than the bruises on my body that Nikolai was real. In addition to a good snow day on a cosy morning, with the strategy of having a good Christmas, sleeping all day. And what more than that necklace to prove it? A man who seemed to have a lot of money, like a king, but who was Nikolai Dostoyevsky, or Nikolai D. ?

I left Aaron for the meantime on the part where the fountain pens are to go to the novel section. Since I saw Sophie Lark's Brutal Prince on TikTok's recommendation, people who have read this say that it has a strong female lead. I enjoy books of that genre, therefore I may be interested in reading it. I looked at the shelves. I also picked up a book and read the synopsis on the back when Aaron came to me here. "You like reading books?" he asked. I turned my eyes on him, "Uh, sometimes. If I'm interested in the plot," I answered.

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.

It sank even deeper but I tried not to show it. "Why are you telling me? You usually don't." He was quiet, till he breathed. "I don't know," before his footsteps got entirely erased. * * * * My fingers trailed across the spine of the books and I stopped on a white covered book. I pull it out of the shelf and hold it in both hands. "Crime and Punishment," I read aloud before gazing down at the author's name. "Fyodor Dos-tos-to-eeev-evsky?" I squint my eyes. "Fyodor Dostoevsky!"