A Story Of Vengeance Novels & Stories

Her thirst to avenge herself and the precious things she lost because of those people Anthea stood in front of her desk while her eyes stared at the blue file lying neatly on her desk. She smiled at the title of the file, but there was no sign of happiness in her blue eyes. Instead, they glinted dangerously as she reached her hand down before picking up the file in her hands. "Rayan Allen," Anthea whispered, the name that was the sole reason behind her nightmares, her wounds, and her thirst for vengeance. There's nothing that could stop a woman who sets her mind to vengeance, and if the woman's name was Anthea Morin, then

​I didn't give a damn about their empty, pathetic threats. ​In my first life, I had died because I was pathetic. I had died because I foolishly trusted the hollow kindness of others, paralyzed by a naive, suffocating fear. But now? I was a cold-blooded tactician reborn from the very depths of hell itself. I had clawed my way back to life for one reason only: vengeance. I would never again allow a single soul, or any twisted trial system, to look down on my existence. ​Suddenly, a massive, burning-hot hand clamped around my waist from behind, gripping me with a brutal, terrifying possessiveness.

I had waited, patient as stone, until the day I was strong enough to walk into the heart of my enemy's kingdom without trembling. Mom. Dad. I've come to avenge you. A determined smile crossed my lips, sharp and humorless. Nothing would stop me tonight — not even if it cost me my own life in the process. I had made peace with that a long time ago. My senses caught movement before I heard it — a shift in the air, the faint scent of leather and steel drifting on the breeze. I slipped behind a marble pillar carved with golden wolves mid-howl, ancient kings kneeling beneath them in tribute, and pressed my back to the cold stone. Footsteps. Voices. Getting closer, unhurried, easy — the walk of men

The man who had also lost a woman he loved, a woman who had died for a cause she believed in. She stumbled towards him, her body shaking, and collapsed into his arms. Dante, his rage momentarily forgotten, simply held her. He felt her frail, trembling body, the raw fear and pain emanating from her, and his grip tightened, a silent promise of vengeance. Her escape was a brutal, scarring journey. She was alive, but barely. She had lost her innocence, her naiveté, and now, Bianca, the only true ally she had ever known in this dangerous world. But in Bianca’s sacrifice, Amara had found something she had been desperately searching for all along: a purpose. A purpose fueled by grief, guilt, and a

“I’ll send it to Uncle Ale, our experts will study it. You go back and pretend you’re sick, wait for me to call you.” “No. I’m not leaving,” I said and slapped my hand on the file. “If I leave now, he’ll know I ran. He’ll know I failed. I have to stay and prove I’m still useful. It will keep me safe.” “You don’t have to prove anything to him,” Vito said, angry now. “Your debt is to your parents, not Lombardi. Your job is to stay alive. The revenge is mine, you did your part.” I looked at him. He was breathing hard. He’s usually so calm, this was new.

But she isn’t. Lauren didn’t steal anything from her. That was the bitter little story Cassandra tells herself at night, the one she repeats until the lie feels like truth. It’s a self-soothing fable: the world wronged me; someone else got what I deserved. That kind of thinking breeds resentment, not competence. And now that deceit has ossified into something uglier, a hatred for Lauren so bright it blinds her. She wants revenge. She wants a title. She wants to be seen. That single-mindedness has narrowed her focus until all she can taste is the idea of Lauren’s downfall. That’s good for me.

VINCENZO I had a life-long mission, one I’d sworn to myself to fulfill, even if it ended up killing me. It was a promise I made to the murdered Vittore family. I’d come up a list, procured with the help of one of most brilliant investigators. It came with a grand price, but it never shook me. I was ready to give my fortune to feel the blood of the culprit stain my bare hands. Hands that would murder their living offspring.

I staggered, my side screaming, but I couldn’t stop—another Bloodfang came at me, and I ducked, driving my knife into its gut. The pack rallied, fighting back, but Veyra was the real threat. She and Lucian grappled, locked in a deadly struggle, until she kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling. She turned to me, her dagger raised, and time slowed—her eyes locked on mine, the blade arcing down.

Pain seared through my scalp as my hair was yanked, and the next thing I knew, I was thrown back with such force that the flowerpot in my arms shattered on the ground. Julian stepped past me, wrapping his arms protectively around the weeping Averil. "Victoria, so what if that rag was something your murderer of a mother left behind? It’s just a rag. Using it as one is fitting." My mind exploded, the words echoing like a deafening roar. With one hand clutching the torn handkerchief and the other gripping a jagged piece of the broken flowerpot, only one thought consumed me, “Die! They both deserve to die!”

I saw flashes then—future upon future—each worse than the last. Adam standing on a battlefield, bloodied and broken, reaching for me as the light drained from his eyes. His brothers falling one by one. The palace collapsing. Kingdoms burning. Emptiness stretching on long after the last scream faded. “This is the price,” the woman intoned. “Innocent blood for vengeance.” “No,” I whispered, sinking to my knees. “I wanted justice.” Lightning struck the ground between us, splitting it open, fire roaring up from the fissure. And I screamed—