All Chapters of The Silence Of His Vows: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Third Person POVThe study was dark except for the desk lamp. Killian sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reviewing reports.Irina sat in the leather chair across from him, her green silk dress catching the light. She held a glass of wine, observing him work with patient attention.Carmina stood near the window, gripping her cane. She'd been silent since they left the dining room, but her fury was palpable in the rigid line of her spine.She couldn't hold it in any longer."That girl," Carmina said suddenly.Killian didn't look up from the report. His pen continued moving across the page.Carmina's knuckles whitened around her cane. "She's becoming a problem.""Is she."It wasn't a question. His voice was flat.Carmina stepped forward slightly. "You saw her tonight. Clumsy. Distracted. She needs more discipline—""Carmina."One word.Cold. Final.Carmina's mouth snapped shut.Killian set down his pen slowly. He leaned back in his chair and looked at her."The staff perf

Seven days passed.Seven days since the breakfast where he'd caught my wrist and examined my bruised hand like I was something broken that needed cataloging.Seven days of nothing.No duties. No tasks. No summons.Just half an hour in the garden each afternoon, supervised by a guard who stood ten feet away and never spoke. I'd walk the stone paths, sit on the bench under the oak tree, and stare at the hedges until my time was up.Then back to my room.The rest of the hours bled together—staring at walls, counting cracks in the ceiling, waiting for something to happen.The silence felt wrong. Heavy.Like the house itself was holding its breath.On the eighth evening, Marco knocked on my door.I was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the last of the daylight fade through the window."Luna," he said when I opened the door. His face was neutral, carefully blank. "I need to inform you of a schedule change."My stomach tightened."Starting tomorrow morning, your duties will change. Yo

I didn't sleep that night.Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hand on my chin. Felt the way he'd tilted my head back, forcing me to look up at him while he stared down at me like I was something he was trying to figure out.Did you eat breakfast?The question kept looping in my head.Why did he care? Why did it matter?By the time morning came, my nerves were shredded.Marco came for me at eight again.I was already dressed, standing by the door, my hands twisted together.He looked at me and frowned slightly. "You look tired."I nodded. I was tired.Tired of being afraid. Tired of not knowing what he wanted. Tired of this constant, suffocating dread that followed me everywhere.We walked to his room in silence.When we reached the door, Marco unlocked it and gestured to the cleaning cart."Same as yesterday. Two hours."I grabbed the supplies with shaking hands.Marco left without another word.I stood outside the door for a long moment, my heart already racing.Just do the work

One week had passed since the bathroom.One week since his hands on my face. Since I'd tried to push him and failed.One week of cleaning his room while he wasn't there.I'd slip in with my supplies, work as fast as possible, and leave before he could appear. Marco never said anything about the speed. He just unlocked the door each morning and let me work.I served breakfast and dinner in the main dining room. The woman—Irina, the kitchen staff called her, the future wife—was always there. Sometimes Carmina sat with them. Sometimes not.I kept my head down. Poured coffee. Cleared plates.Survived.But on the eighth day, Marco came in the afternoon."You're needed in the office," he said. "Coffee service."My stomach dropped.I followed Marco down the hallway, carrying a silver tray with coffee and three cups.The office door was already open.I stepped inside.Killian sat behind his desk, his attention on his laptop. He didn't look up.Irina sat across from him in a leather chair, her

The day felt strange.I woke up to noise—distant but constant. Footsteps in the hallways. Doors opening and closing. Voices calling out in Russian.Something was happening.I tried my door handle.Locked.I pressed my ear against the wood, listening.More footsteps. The sound of furniture being moved. Someone shouting instructions.But I couldn't leave to see what it was.So I waited.I sat on the edge of my bed and waited while the activity continued outside my door. Hours passed. The light from the window shifted across the floor.Afternoon came. Then evening.The noise grew louder. More urgent.I paced the small room, my nerves wound tight.What was happening out there?Then, just after sunset, someone knocked.I opened the door quickly.An old woman stood there—someone from the kitchen staff I'd seen once or twice. She was holding a black dress draped over her arm and a white apron folded on top."Put this on," she said in heavily accented English. "Now."I stared at her, confused