The Poet X Audiobook Novels & Stories

They didn't know that silence is the best canvas for a confession. The front door didn't just open; it slammed. The heavy oak frame shuddering against the limestone walls, the sound echoing through the empty hallways like a gunshot in a canyon. Heavy, frantic footsteps hurried down the corridor, the leather soles of his shoes striking the marble floors with a desperate, uneven rhythm. Xavier appeared in the doorway of the morning room. He looked entirely unraveled, a complete ghost of the man who had left the house the previous morning. His silver-streaked hair was wild and damp, his white shirt was stained with sweat at the collar, and his chest rising and falling in ragged, desperate gasps

Somehow I moved my gaze to the shadow dude, who had the decency to chuckle at my state. “If you’re thinking of jumping don't bother Love. You would have a long fall before hitting the rocks at the bottom of The Divide.” He crossed his arms “What a shame that would be too.” “The Divide?” I asked cautiously still unnerved. “You know the giant ravine leading to the mine? Even my grandmother could see it and she is blind as a bat.” The sapphire eyed male snarked rolled his eyes at me in distaste. “Thanks for the input.” I cut in icily eyeing the window. Maybe jumping to my death would be better than staying here.

A LITTLE BIT SPICY🔞🔞 Olivia’s POV The parking garage was too quiet. Too empty. Every sound was amplified—the hum of a fluorescent light overhead, the drip of water somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of our breathing. The wall was freezing against my back. But he was fire, pressing into me like he’d been lit for years and I was the only thing that could put him out. “Xander please......” My voice cracked. “We can’t.....”

Most were about history, leadership, strategy. But there were a few that surprised me. Poetry. Classic literature. A worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I smiled despite everything. Xavier reading poetry felt… unexpected. I pulled the poetry book out. Flipped through it. Some pages were dog-eared. Lines underlined. “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” My throat tightened. I put the book back so fast you would think it burned me. Then I moved to his desk.

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

Four months later... Over time, we became accomplices, and every day my feeling for Mr. X increased. His words warmed me and made me happy. Mr. X says: I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you yesterday. To make up for it, a poem. "You’ll know that I don’t love you and that I love you since in two ways is life, the word is a wing of silence, The fire is half cold. I love you to start loving you,

he's already gone out the door. I didn't know how I feel about Xander. He hasn't said much to me, but he's been doing a lot. He's gotten me food, clothes, and also my poem book. He told me how he read it and saw that it was completely full. So he went to the store and bought me a brand new one. This one had a black leather cover with a wolf engraved in it. I mean yeah it's cool, but I still didn't feel good about him. A part of me is expecting this to be all fake. If it was...I'll run away. Far away. I'll run and find my brother.

Xander’s voice no longer containing the static of an out of range antenna, but is as clear as a summer day. The deep baritone of his voice sending shivers down my spine, as he continues talking. Sparks sprouting along my stomach and down to my feet. His gruff voice listing off boy names, as my eyes slowly blink open. The bright fluorescent lights blinding as my eyes adjust to be open. Once I can see again, my stare finds Xander, laying over stomach naming of girl names. The brightness catching on his greasy, unwashed hair. Xander looks the worst I have ever seen him, and yet he is still so damn beautiful.

But the asset had started to talk to him. Not about the Family, or the threats, or the Don's cruel machade. She spoke of her sketches, the smell of the sea, and the books she loved. ​"Do you ever read, Xavier?" she asked one afternoon, curled on the window seat with a tattered copy of a book of poetry. ​He kept his gaze fixed on the double doors. "Yes, Ma'am. Technical manuals, Operational reports, Satellite telemetry." ​Alessia laughed a bright, warm, entirely unexpected sound that made something inside Xavier's chest hitch.

The blankets swallowed me whole, and it was easier to drown in them than swim upward toward reality. Xander’s mansion was always quiet. Not the comforting quiet of a home, but the dead quiet of a museum, expensive, calculated, cold. Every trim, every polished surface, every marble tile screamed superiority. It reminded me that people like him could buy silence just as easily as they bought girls.