Все главы SHADOW OF VOW'S: Глава 91 - Глава 100

Alessia Volkov The manoir was quieter than usual—too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that invited peace or rest, but the kind that made your skin crawl, like the house itself was holding its breath. Every tick of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway sounded louder, more deliberate, like a countdown to something I couldn't name.I was curled up in one of the oversized velvet chairs in the grand salon, a blanket tucked around my legs, but there was no warmth in it. The fire in the hearth had gone out hours ago, and I hadn’t bothered to reignite it. A book lay open in my lap, its spine bent but the pages untouched. I’d read the same sentence at least twenty times without absorbing a single word.My eyes kept darting to the shadows stretching across the walls and ceiling, warping into strange shapes in the low light. I couldn’t help but feel like I was being watched, even though I knew I was alone.Well—almost alone.Stassie was asleep in the next room, still under close medical obs

Alessia Volkov The soft golden rays of the early morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the manoir, casting a warm, amber glow over the cream-colored walls and polished wooden floors. Dust particles danced in the air like fireflies, catching the light as if the house itself was breathing again after holding its breath for weeks.I sat at Stassie’s bedside, barely moving, barely breathing. Her room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that had weight, that pressed down on your chest until you couldn’t tell if the ache came from grief or hope. She hadn’t stirred in nearly a month, and still, I sat here almost every morning. Watching. Waiting.This morning felt different.It wasn’t anything I could see. It was something I felt. A strange shift in the air—lighter, warmer. As if the house, the world, was holding its breath again, but this time in anticipation rather than fear.Stassie looked as she always had these past few weeks—pale, still, but somehow serene.

Nikolai Volkov The elevator ride to Sienna McCoy’s penthouse was silent, but my mind wasn’t. It was a storm. Each floor we ascended felt like a countdown to a war I had no interest in fighting—yet no choice but to finish.I stared at my reflection in the mirrored walls. I looked calm. Composed. Dangerous. Everything I was trained to be. But deep down, there was a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in years: disgust. Not at her. At myself. For ever letting Sienna get that close. For underestimating just how far she'd go.The elevator chimed softly at the top floor. The doors slid open with an expensive hiss, revealing the sprawling opulence of Sienna’s lair. A white marble foyer opened into a penthouse that reeked of curated luxury—glass, chrome, curated art, and manipulation.And there she was.Sienna stood in the doorway, barefoot, wrapped in a silk robe the color of deep plum, a glass of red wine in her hand and a smile that had seduced and betrayed a thousand times over."Nikolai,

Nikolai Volkov The taste in my mouth was wrong. Bitter. Metallic. Familiar, but not from the night before. This wasn’t the taste of scotch or cigars. It was chemical. Foreign. Intentional.My eyes cracked open to a ceiling I didn’t recognize. High, vaulted. Too ornate. The light filtering through gauzy curtains was sharp, intrusive. Everything around me smelled… expensive. Roses and perfume and something artificial that made my stomach churn.My head was heavy. Too heavy.And the sheets—red silk—were twisted around my legs.A slow, sinking dread spread through my chest.I turned my head, heartbeat thundering in my ears.Sienna McCoy lay naked beside me, her dark hair fanned out across the pillows like some fucking Renaissance painting. One slender arm draped casually across my torso, as if it belonged there.No.No. No. No.I sat up so fast the room tilted. Nausea gripped my stomach. My vision blurred for a second, then sharpened—cruelly. I stared down at the woman beside me. The sce

Nikolai Volkov The ringing in my ears from the gunshots had faded to a low, persistent buzz, but the weight in my chest hadn't eased. Every part of my body was tense, wired for war. Smoke still drifted in thin wisps through the air like phantoms refusing to leave. The coppery scent of blood mingled with the acrid tang of gunpowder, creating a cocktail that clung to my skin, my clothes—my soul. I crouched low near the tall corner window of the east wing, my back pressed against the cool stone. My eyes stayed locked on the shadows moving outside across the manoir’s vast lawn. The golden afternoon light had long since surrendered to dusk, and now everything was bathed in hues of smoke, flame, and chaos. The kind of chaos that eats everything in its path. Figures darted between trees and sculptures, flitting through hedges like wraiths. Muzzle flashes burst like fireflies in the dark—short, brutal flashes of violence, gone as quickly as they came. Some of the shadows I recognized. My