Virtuous Vows Book Novels & Stories

“You recognize it now. That’s what matters.” There was no moral weight to her words, no judgment, just forward motion. She reached over to the tray on the side table, picked up a fresh glass of water, and placed it firmly into his thick palm. It wasn't an act of comfort; it was routine. It was structure. “Don’t spiral into interpretation,” she added quietly, her fingers lingering against his skin until his grip was secure. “It won’t help her. It won’t help you.” Omar nodded slightly, his fingers tightening around the glass. The guilt didn’t vanish from his stomach, but it stopped leading the machine. It was under the floorboards again.

“You cannot disrupt the ritual simply based on whims—” “Before the Moon Goddess who bears witness,” I said, my voice booming across the hall, “I, Viktor Volvov, swear this vow. That I will take no mate, accept no bond, and bear no mark,” I continued, steady and unflinching, “except one woman. Deliliah Carmichael, Head Priestess of the Vyrclaw Pack.” Gasps erupted around us. I didn’t look away from her. Her face drained of color. “Should I fail to mate her before my thirtieth birthday,” I said, “I forfeit my life to the Moon Goddess’ judgment without resistance, without appeal.”

“Your men are stationed at every exit like I’m some high-value prisoner.” He crossed the room with deliberate steps, his polished shoes clicking softly on the marble, and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. The amber liquid swirled in the glass as he leaned against the opposite counter, putting just enough space between us to feel intentional. “Progress, at least. Yesterday you were trying to claw your way out of the car like a wild cat.” “Don’t get used to it, Volkov,” I shot back, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. The hatred I’d carried for years still simmered low in my belly, a constant burn.

​"Type the phrase, Clara. Reset the grid." ​Clara looked at the keys. She could feel the heat of his chest pressing against her back, his breath steady against her neck. The clock in her head was at forty-five hours. This was the point of no return. If she types the code, she surrenders her only weapon. She becomes entirely integrated into the Vance empire. ​Her fingers hovered over the mechanical keys. She took a deep breath, her heart hammering against her ribs, and began to type. ​1792.08.14.ROSSI.CRUSH

We promised to keep the inn’s doors open for anyone who needed it, and to keep being as loud as needed when people tried to strip kindness into commodities. When we got home the light had softened in the way that makes rooms feel like things you can fold. Marcus paused at the entrance to the nursery and looked at the little crib with something like reverence. “I’ve been thinking about vows,” he said. “Not the public ones—private ones. The ones I keep failing at and the ones I want to get good at.” “You owe me a vow about pancake distribution,” I said, because binding agreements are the only kind I can handle without dramatic paperwork.

“Daughter of Alpha Rowland of Moonlit Pack. I have come here in peace, and in peace I will remain. But I will not kneel. My loyalty belongs first to my father, to my blood, and to my people. If my sincerity must be measured, let it be by my actions, not by the bend of my knees.” The hall erupted. Gasps, sharp whispers, scandalized murmurs. The firelight seemed to crackle louder, as though the flames themselves had been shocked by my defiance. I held Harold’s gaze. “Instead, I’d declare the Healer’s Vow. Your oath binds the body, the healer’s vow binds the heart. It is recited standing, hands unshackled… so the speaker cannot be forced to promise what her spirit won’t keep. If you mean to wel

The priest opened his book, then lifted his gaze. His voice was calm. Deep. Echoing throughout the room. “Mr. Adrian… do you take Miss Livia as your wife,” he said slowly, “to live together in the sacred bond of marriage—to love her, to protect her, to honor her, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, and to remain faithful to her until death do you part?” A brief silence followed. All eyes were on Adrian. Without hesitation. Without pause. “Yes, I do.”

The Vows The priest began the rites in Latin, the ancient words echoing through the vaulted ceiling. Roman went through the motions, his voice a steady baritone, but his mind was reeling. He looked down at her, seeing the "elbow-length gloves" he had seen on the mannequin. He realized then that the Lombardis hadn't hidden her to protect her from the world. They had hidden her to protect the world from her. When it came time for her vows, she didn't look at the priest. She looked directly at Roman. Her voice was low, melodic, and held the same razor-sharp edge he had heard in the hallway the day before.