Thriller Narrator Novels & Stories

Not enough to remove the threat—just enough to let the danger breathe. “I believe you.” The shock on her face is immediate; she thought she was gone. Something else flickers in her eyes—not fear. Not really. Something else entirely. Exhilaration? Is she… turned on? “Did you like that, Brynn?” I whisper, the gun still warm against her skin. “Of course not. You’re psychotic,” she spits. “Oh, Brynn,” I say, tracing the silencer down the length of her exposed neck, then past her breast, letting the silencer rest right above her panty line. “Your body doesn’t lie.”

“You’ll want to read this.” As I skimmed the text, a chill ran down my spine. The anonymous blogger described the murders in chilling detail—details only the killer could know. “This is insane,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why would a hitman write about his crimes?” “To control the narrative,” Natasha explained. “Think about it. If the public sees these as random killings with no connection, no one suspects Gabriel.” “But why risk exposing himself?” I questioned, pacing the room now, the tablet still in my hand.

He looked at Nelly, who sat like a stone statue, still whispering lies to her legal team, and he laughed—a jagged, broken sound. ​"You're still lying, Nelly?" Raymond snarled, turning to the judge. "I'll tell you everything. I pulled the trigger in 2009. I drove the car that brushed John’s wife. I killed the reporter. But every single drop of blood was shed on her orders. She was the mind; I was just the hand." ​For hours, Raymond detailed every bribe, every clean-up, and every threat, effectively burying Nelly under the weight of her own greed.

He ignored the cup of coffee someone had nervously placed nearby. He didn’t look at the agents. He looked at the photos, then his gaze turned inward. When he began to speak, it wasn’t to the room. It was a cold, quiet narration, as if he was reading from a script only he could see. His voice was detached, yet horrifyingly vivid. “He doesn’t take them from parks. Too much noise. Too many variables. He needs control. A threshold… a place of trust.” Zhedya’s eyes were distant, seeing a different scene. “A part-time job offer. A tutoring ad…Yes…He meets them there.”

But as I'm about to exit, not even bothering to get my drink anymore, Ryan utters a sentence I never thought anyone would say about Max Blackwell: "Did he tell you about his involvement in human trafficking?" I freeze instantly, my unruly hair smacking me in the face from the abrupt halt. "Guess that would be a 'no,'" Ryan's icy voice chills my veins, and even though I'm not facing him, I can imagine the smirk on his face. He wanted my attention all along, and he's certainly achieved it with that rhetorical question. But I know better... don't I? It's Max, for heaven's sake. There's no way... "Not so loyal after all, huh?" He continues his wicked game as I feel his gaze intensify on my back

I glared. "Oh yes, I do. What's it about?" He asks, opening it on the same page where I was at. "It is a thriller one, you know where someone commits a heavy crime and murders the main character's whole family.." "Yeah? Interesting," he went back onto the very first page. This guy really just read the author's note, oh my goodness he is killing me... "Give it back." "Eh, maybe when I finish it," he smirks. "Not a chance, Ellis, hand it over."

She vanished into the shadows by the stone hearth, her breathing so shallow I couldn't track her. I stayed low. I crawled toward the center of the room, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every inch was a gamble. The truth serum was still a low hum in my ears, whispering for me to scream, to confess, to give up. I bit the wound in my tongue again. The fresh spike of pain kept the silence locked in my throat. A shadow moved across the threshold. He didn't rush in. He drifted. A silhouette in a long, dark coat, holding a silenced pistol. He moved with a grace that wasn't military. It was practiced. Professional. He knew exactly where the blind spots were.

Aiden steps in front of me. “Hey. What’s this? Back off.” His voice is lowered in warning. “Willow Thompson,” someone calls, in that professional manner that can only be associated with journalists. “What’s it like going from an orphan to the heir of a multi billion dollar corporation?” “Miss Thompson,” someone else calls from the small crowd that seems to have gathered around us. “What can you say about the gunshot wounds you suffered over a month ago?” “Back off,” Vincent growls, appearing in front of me. The reporter, who’s currently shoving a mic in front of my face, shrinks back at the sight of Vincent’s glare.

I looked up at him in horror. “I saw the shooter’s body,” Sebastian said, now calm and in control of himself. “And I saw the gun. There was a silencer on it. He was in a Dubai uniform. Somehow he managed to get past security, which means he had everything planned out ahead of time, or there’s someone on the inside who got him in. Not only that, he knew exactly when to target Connor. He wasn’t in that hallway by accident, not at that precise moment. Lily, this was a professional hit. He was there to kill Connor, and he would have taken the best opportunity that presented itself. If it hadn’t been in the hallway, it would have been somewhere else, sometime this evening. You might have saved Co

His name has always been spoken in whispers, infamous across the country as a skilled assassin. And he’s my mate.The weight of that thought settles on my shoulders, numbing me to the growled threats sounding around me. Ryan’s arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back into his hard chest as if that will do anything. My gaze locks with Nick’s stormy grey ones, a shadow of pain crossing his face, but he hurriedly contains it. My stomach twists with guilt before I remember myself. This man is a cold-blooded killer for hire. A shiver of fear runs up my spine, but I don’t dare take another step back.