Whiskey Lullaby Alison Krauss Lyrics Novelas e Histórias

My mind was elsewhere, trapped in a haze of sorrow and regret. The bottle of whiskey on my desk was nearly empty, the amber liquid offering a fleeting escape from the pain that gnawed at my soul. I poured myself another glass, the sharp burn of the alcohol doing little to dull the ache in my chest. My wolf, Hunter, was restless, his howls echoing in my mind like a constant reminder of what I had lost. ‘She’s gone,’ Hunter growled, his voice filled with despair. ‘Our Luna is gone.’

And finally—finally—our eyes meet. She sees me. Not just my outline or my shadow. Me. Her mouth parts in horror. I feel the moment the truth strikes her chest like lightning. She whispers, “Who are you?” And I smile. Not with cruelty, no. With sadness. With the weight of generations pressing against my soul. “Do you remember the lullaby, Alika?” I ask her, voice curling from the glass. “The one your mother used to hum when you were scared?” She freezes.

Whiskey. Neither one of us fell asleep. I could tell Gunner was awake by his breathing, and because he stank of anxiety. I don’t know what he was anxious about though. We lay silently for hours, side by side, neither one of us speaking. It was strangely comfortable. “Whiskey?” Gunner’s voice whispered, breaking the silence. “Yes?” I whispered back. He took a deep breath and shuffled on the spot, “I want to take you back with me. Back home, to my pack” he said quietly. I rolled over onto my side to face him. He was lying on his stomach, cuddling his pillow under his chin.

The soft hum of classical music filled the room as I swirled my glass of red wine, my gaze fixed on the cityscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Something felt off. Ethan had been distant lately, preoccupied with something I couldn’t quite place. I prided myself on knowing every move my stepson made, but lately, he’d been slipping through my grasp. And then there was that woman—Sophia Grey. A name from the past I thought I had buried.

Matthew's POV I tipped the glass to my lips and swallowed the last of the whiskey in one punishing, deliberate gulp. The burn hit instantly, searing its way down my throat like wildfire, leaving a trail of raw, relentless heat that forced a grunt out of me. It clawed at my insides, but even that pain felt hollow. Not enough. Nowhere near enough. I wanted it to do more than just sting—I needed it to scorch away the thoughts that kept crashing through my skull like a wrecking ball. The guilt. The shame. The helplessness that gnawed at me, hour after hour. If only whiskey could char memories the same way it torched my throat, I might’ve stood a chance tonight.

I struggled to stay awake but I couldn't and a familiar lyrics kept running through my head “I love you, a bushel love you, a bushel and a peck A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck A hug around the neck and a barrel and a heap A barrel and a heap and I'm talkin' in my sleep About you, about you. 'Cause I love you, a bushel and a peck You bet your purdy neck, I do A doodle oodle, ooh doo A doodle oodle, oodle, ooh doo I love you, a bushel and a peck A bushel and a peck though you make my heart a wreck

“Give me some whiskey on the rocks, please.” The black woman probably shares the same age as mine nods, “Whiskey on the rocks coming right up.” She places the glass of whiskey on the counter, and I drink every drop of it. “One more, please.” I don't remember how many times I said that phrase. My head is spinning, excellent, a fantastic lullaby to sleep. “Where is my whiskey?” My voice is dry. “Ma’am, I think you're drunk. I’m giving you a glass of cold water to sober up.” I can't have a glimpse of her face. Maybe the alcohol is kicking in.

I fucking love that girl! I take the bottle of my whiskey and swig it. I turn up all the volume of the music playing on TV. I am playing instrumental music that helps me think and right now Bitter Sweet Symphony by David Garrett is playing. I am sitting in the middle of the stairway, drowning in my problems.

Take me home tonight, I'd do anything with you, buy a bottle of whiskey, we'll get matching tattoos, tell me that you love me, let me drive your car, we can sit 'til morning light, just countin' every star, 'cause if there's a hell, I'll meet you there, and if there's a heaven, they're serving beer, and if you're an angel, then I must be high, if there's a church, It's rock 'n roll, if there's a devil, I sold my soul, and it's alright whatever we do tonight, 'cause if there's a god, dammit she won't mind, If there's a god, baby, she won't mind. I know it's not the normal thing to sing to a new born, but it was the only thing that came to my mind when being sleep deprived and all, plus it's H

Whiskey. We laid silently for hours, side by side, neither one of us speaking. It was strangely comfortable. “Whiskey?” Gunner’s voice whispered, breaking the silence. “Yes?” I whispered back. He took a deep breath and shuffled on the spot, “I want to take you back with me, to my pack” he said quietly. I rolled over onto my side to face him. He was laying on his stomach, cuddling his pillow under his chin. “Why?” I asked with a frown. He laid his cheek on the pillow and looked over at me. It was pitch black, yet I could see the blue of his eyes swirling through the darkness.