Novel & Cerita Brutal Vows

On the night of their fourth wedding anniversary, Raymond Whitmore stood on a Boston stage and unveiled a perfume called Eternal Claire, dedicating it to the woman he swore he would love until his last breath. The world called it the most romantic gesture of the year. Claire called it a cage with a golden lid. Because thirty minutes later, a stranger sent her a video of that same perfume being poured over another woman's naked chest, in a suite two floors below the ballroom, by her husband's very hands. For four years, Claire had traded her PhD, her name, and her silence for a marriage the tabloids envied. In return, she got a mother-in-law who called her barren, a husband who called h

His breath came ragged, every inhale laced with humiliation. He touched his bruised throat, eyes narrowing. “You’ll pay for that,” he vowed under his breath. “I swear it. You’ll regret ever crossing me.”

"Or do you need to hit me again to prove you're still in control?" Lawrence breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his bespoke vest. For a fleeting moment, a crack appeared in the older man's impenetrable facade—a flash of shock at his own violence, quickly buried beneath decades of tyranny and pride. "You are ungrateful," Lawrence hissed, pointing a trembling finger at Adrian’s chest. "After everything I have built, everything I have sacrificed to secure your future, you stand there and look at me with those dead eyes. You've been spending time with the wrong people. I see the rot in you, Adrian. I see it."

At that moment, he wasn't a fighter; he was a merciless force, unchained and driven by something primal. Bruto lay there, a motionless and blood-soaked heap on the ring's floor. Vincenzo sat over him, and continued a relentless storm of stabs, each echoing the air with a sickening squelch. It was a cold-blooded replay of the brutality he'd unleashed on Francois at the peace agreement party. That was my first glimpse of him taking someone's life... and I knew it wouldn't be the last. The ring transformed into a macabre river of blood, spreading in every direction around him.

Deep down, I knew I was making a deal with the devil, yet I was willing to risk everything for revenge. "It's going to be fun, Little Dove. Let's see where the flames of your revenge lead you." There was a warning in his words, yet I didn't feel scared. "I'm ready to get burned in it but only after turning people who betrayed my parents into ashes," I said, meaning every word. It's time to begin the brutal game of revenge.

Tears blurred my vision. “Sabrina,” the priestess said, “your vows.” “I choose you,” I said. “Not because life is easy with you, but because it is real. Because you see me and never ask me to be less.” My voice shook, but I continued. “I vow to walk with you, to fight with you, to build with you. I vow to love you in peace and in war, in joy and in pain. You are my mate. You are my home.”

“Bratva contact just called. They want proof.” “Proof of what?” I asked. Ruin’s eyes met mine slowly. “Of the marriage,” he said. My stomach dropped. “They want a public announcement tonight,” the man continued. “And...” He hesitated, glancing at me. “A blood vow.” The world tilted. “What kind of blood vow?” I asked quietly. Ruin didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “The kind that can’t be undone.” I stared at him, fear and fury crashing inside me. “You said the arrangement was temporary,” I whispered.

Heat unfurled there, branding me from the inside out with the echo of his vow, searing itself into my very soul. Dane staggered under the force of it, his body taut with strain. The glow licked up his throat and jaw, washing his face in fleeting light. He clenched his teeth against the pain, but he didn’t waver, didn’t withdraw. His eyes were burning and raw with torment, locking me in place as his voice broke through, ragged and fierce. “It’s done,” he rasped, each word dragged out from somewhere deep. “I’ve bound myself. The vow will hold… even if it kills me.”

"By the blood that flows from the womb of betrayal, By the ashes of the women we buried unseen, I vow to the Order of the Crimson Shadow, To keep my heart from the touch of a woman. To drink no affection, nor taste the wine of desire. To build no home, plant no seed, For love is weakness, and weakness, death. As my father vowed, so I vow…” A slash across my palm. Blood dripped onto the altar. Then fire erupted from the cracks in the ground, and the robes began to burn. The torches screamed. The altar bled. I woke up choking, my chest soaked in sweat, my breath ragged. The room was spinning. The sheets of the bed where I laid were tangled, soaked. My skin felt like it was crawling. Like the v

The stones were marked with symbols older than time, scrawled in a language twisted and dark, instructions I’d memorized and practiced for years. With her body lying cold and vulnerable on the altar, I wasted no time. There was no room for hesitation, no space for mercy. The ritual demanded brutality—absolute, unforgiving brutality. It was, after all, the very essence of what demons valued. I gripped the blade in my hand, the steel sharp enough to sever bonds older than flesh, and I began the incantation, my voice a low, steady hum that echoed through the chamber.