Lahat ng Kabanata ng SHADOW OF VOW'S: Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 110

Nikolai Volkov The sound of shattered glass was the only thing filling the silence of the manoir.A crystal decanter, once sitting untouched on the bar cart, now lay in a thousand jagged fragments across the floor. I had thrown it with everything I had, my rage spilling out in a burst of destruction I couldn’t contain. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.My fists were clenched, jaw locked so tight my teeth ached. My breathing came in short, furious bursts. There was a storm behind my eyes, fierce and relentless, pounding against the walls of my control.She was gone.Alessia.Stolen. Ripped from the place I’d spent years fortifying. From me.The one place I swore she would always be safe had failed her. And I had failed her. The truth of it sat like acid in my gut, burning through every layer of my being.I turned toward the glass coffee table and flipped it with a guttural roar, sending it crashing against the hardwood in a symphony of breaking wood, splintered legs, and scatte

Viktor Natov The scent of dust and decay filled my lungs as I stepped into the house that time had forgotten. The wooden floor groaned beneath my boots, every creak echoing like a ghost of the past. This place... this godforsaken shack, tucked away on a forgotten stretch of land just outside the city, was more than a ruin. It was the birthplace of my hatred. And now, it would be the graveyard of my enemies. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke swirl like the thoughts in my mind. Alessia Moretti sat in the corner of the room, her hands tied, eyes burning with both fear and fury. She was beautiful even in terror. Just like her mother once was. Ah, Denitsa. My pulse ticked up at the memory, at the cruel twist of fate. How naïve I had been back then. So full of pride, so confident in my power. Denitsa was everything to me elegant, devoted, untouchable. Or so I thought. Until I found out she was fucking a Volkov. Drisha Volkov. The name

Alessia Volkov There was a heaviness on my chest.A pressure I couldn’t explain.As consciousness slowly returned, it brought with it a dull throbbing in my temples and the sickly smell of mold and dust. My mouth was dry. My limbs—numb. I blinked, disoriented, only to be met by darkness, the dim flickering of a failing bulb casting shadows on cracked walls. My head felt like it had been split open.Then the sensation hit me fully—the tightness around my arms, my legs. I was sitting on a wooden chair, my wrists tied behind my back, ankles bound, something foreign and cold wrapped around my torso.Panic surged through me like wildfire.My breath caught as my body jolted forward instinctively—but I couldn’t move. That cold weight along my ribs—I looked down as far as I could.Wires.Metal.A belt. A vest.And it wasn’t just any vest.It was a bomb.Tears welled in my eyes before I could even process what I was seeing. My body went rigid, and the air caught in my throat.“No,” I whisper

Nikolai Volkov The air inside the SUV was thick—suffocating with the weight of things neither of us dared say.Alessia sat beside me, completely still, like her spirit hadn’t climbed into the car with her. She was swaddled in a wool blanket I had grabbed in a panic before carrying her out of that cursed house. It hung off her shoulders like armor too heavy for her small frame. Her eyes, wide but glassy, stared out the window, unmoving. Her expression didn’t change with the scenery, or the headlights, or the night falling around us.Not a single word had passed between us since I’d unstrapped her from that damn chair.Not one.She hadn’t looked at me. Not once.Her silence was a scream pressed between her teeth, and I didn’t know how to reach her. The woman beside me was Alessia in form, in name—but something inside her had fractured in that room. And I couldn’t tell if it was repairable.I glanced at her wrists, still red and tender from the restraints. Bruises already blooming benea

Alessia Volkov The manor is silent. Too silent. A suffocating, heavy silence that seems to press in on every wall, every corridor. It hums beneath the surface, a presence that watches and waits. It’s not peace. It’s not stillness. It’s aftermath. A calm that feels like the dead space between thunder and lightning. I used to crave this silence. It was my shield, my refuge. The only space where I could breathe without expectation, without pressure. It was a luxury I carved for myself in a world that never allowed softness. But now… now it wraps around me like a shroud. It clings to my skin, seeps into my marrow, and weighs down every step I take. It doesn't comfort me anymore. It’s been two days. Two days since I came back alive from that place that smelled of blood and mildew, where metal cuffs bit into my skin, and Viktor's voice wrapped around me like a noose. Two days of waking up without meaning, mechanically dressing, standing upright because collapsing feels too final. Two da