The Unholy Oath

The Unholy Oath

K.E Vale

5.0
Comment(s)
7
View
46
Chapters

A storm destroys the local coastal town church, forcing Father Daniel Moretti, a brooding young priest under the roof of the town's sharp-tongued bartender, Elena Petrova. Elena has built her new life running the town's bar, the salty anchor, where gossiping is fuels the entire town, a fierce storm forced her to give shelter to Father Daniel Moretti, who's silence has made him a mystery in the community. together in Elena's modest home, tension brews into a forbidden attraction neither can ignore. Elena struggles against her own troubled past and fear of judgment, while Daniel wrestles with his vows, his faith, and the pull of desire he feels towards Elena. As their feelings are getting deeper and more intense, Elena and Daniel have to figure out a way to battle all the threats coming, as their past lives seem to be catching up with them. With betrayal closing in from both past and present, Elena and Daniel must risk everything to choose each other. Their fight becomes not only against oppressive forces but against their own fears of loss, faith, and shame. The storm that brought them together may ultimately tear them apart or give them the courage to build a new future, no matter the cost.

Chapter 1 The Storm

The storm had been howling for hours. I hated it so much. If I were God, I wouldn't even let it ever rain again.. We'd have just 3 seasons instead of 4.

It rained heavily against the windows of The Salty Anchor, the only bar in town still open at this hour. Not that anyone was drinking. The whole place was tense. Half the fishermen were crammed inside to escape the wind, the other half praying their boats would survive.

I wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes, the rough cotton rag a familiar anchor. My nerves were too heightened to stand still because storms always did this to me. It wasn't the thunder or the lightning. It was the noise, the constant, unpredictable violence of it.

It reminded me of another life.

Of a cramped Portland apartment where the shouting was just as loud as the weather, and a lot more personal. Jared used to hate the rain. He said it made people stupid and melancholy. He blamed it for his bad moods, which usually meant I spent the night trying to be invisible. Polishing glasses. Keeping quiet. Pretending not to exist.

I shook the memory away. Wrong place. Wrong time.

The Salty Anchor smelled of wet wool and cigarette smoke. Boots thumped against the wooden floors. No one spoke above a murmur. Outside, the wind screamed like it wanted to rip the town apart.

BANG.

The door slammed open, nearly ripped off its hinges. A blast of cold air shoved into the room, spraying rain across the floor. I clenched my jaw. If someone broke that door again, I was going to kill them.

But then he walked in.

Father Daniel.

Dripping wet, black shirt plastered to his chest. Dark hair slicked to his neck. The usual hum of conversation died in a heartbeat.

He never came in. Not once in the five years since he'd arrived, taken his vows, and buried himself in that church like a ghost no one could touch.

What the hell was he doing here?

I gripped the rag harder, forced a smirk. My voice came out sharper than I meant.

"Well, hell froze over. What brings you in, Father? Finally here to preach about my sinful margaritas?"

His eyes flicked to me. Dark as the storm outside. He didn't linger, only looked for a second before moving on.

"The church roof collapsed."

Silence spread like spilled beer.

I blinked. "...Shit."

"The rectory is flooded. Uninhabitable." His voice was flat, like he was reading a grocery list.

"So, you need a place to stay?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Three seconds passed. The longest three seconds of my life.

"If it's not an inconvenience."

Inconvenience? I almost laughed. Try torture.

Because Father Daniel standing in my bar was one thing.

Father Daniel sleeping under my roof?

That was a whole different kind of sin.

The rain slowed to a miserable drizzle by the time we stepped outside. He walked a steady three feet behind me the entire way, like I carried the plague.

"You don't have to act like I'm contagious," I muttered.

"Habit."

"What, staying five miles away from women?"

"Yes."

I snorted. "Wow. Really selling the whole holy man thing."

He didn't answer. His footsteps stayed steady, too controlled, like he was marching toward something he hated.

My house sat on the edge of town, half-hidden behind crab traps and a rusted truck that hadn't run in years. I fumbled with the keys at the porch, aware of him behind me, tall and silent as a shadow.

"You can take the guest room," I said once the door opened. "Bathroom's down the hall. Towels under the sink. Don't... pray at me or whatever."

A pause stretched between us. Then, low and even: "I won't."

I turned. For the first time, his gaze met mine. Not long. Not intense. Just long enough to make my stomach flip.

Then he looked away, brushing past me with that calm detachment, vanishing down the hall.

Oh, this was going to be hell.

I busied myself in the kitchen, pretending I wasn't counting every sound he made upstairs. The creak of floorboards. The soft click of the bathroom door. The rush of water through the pipes. Each sound made him more real. Not the ghost in the church. Not the untouchable Father Daniel. Just a man in my house.

My phone buzzed.

Maggie: Wait. HE'S STAYING WITH YOU?!

Of course, she already knew. News in this town traveled faster than lightning.

Me: Church got wrecked. No choice.

Maggie: Bullshit. You've been eye-fucking him for years.

Me: I HAVE NOT.

Maggie: Liar. You get twitchy when he walks by.

I didn't answer. Because she wasn't wrong.

The floor creaked again. I turned sharply, pressing the phone against my chest.

Father Daniel stood there. Dry black sweater. Damp hair curling at his temple. Out of the collar, he looked different. Human. Dangerous.

"You hungry?" I asked too quickly.

"No."

"Right. Forgot you live on communion wafers and guilt."

His jaw tightened. "I should retire for the night."

"Yeah. Sure. Good talk."

He turned. Stopped. Looked back.

"Thank you. For your hospitality." The words sounded forced, like he had to drag them out.

I swallowed. "Don't mention it. Literally. Ever."

Something flickered across his face. Almost a smile. Then gone. He walked upstairs, leaving me alone with the hum of the fridge and the quiet drip of water from my coat.

Three weeks. That's how long it would take to fix the church roof, according to old Pete from the hardware store.

Three weeks of this.

Whatever this was.

I was so screwed.

The night dragged on. I cleaned bottles that weren't dirty. Rearranged napkins that didn't need rearranging. My nerves buzzed too hard to sleep.

Every storm set me on edge, but this one was worse. Because every creak above my head wasn't just the house settling. It was him.

I made tea, the cheap kind Maggie swore tasted like boiled socks. Sat at the table. Forced myself to breathe.

The rain tapped softer against the windows. The storm was easing. I should have felt calmer. Instead, my chest felt tight.

I thought about Jared again. His anger. His fists. The way storms had always meant a long night of keeping quiet.

I glanced up at the ceiling. Father Daniel's shadow moved across the crack of light under the guest room door.

Different man. Different storm.

But the tension in my gut felt the same.

Morning came gray and heavy. I hadn't slept more than an hour.

The smell of coffee reached me before I even made it downstairs. I froze.

Father Daniel was in my kitchen.

He stood at the counter, pouring coffee into one of my chipped mugs like he belonged there. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms bare. Strong. Steady. He didn't look at me when he spoke.

"I hope you don't mind. I found the coffee."

My voice came out rough. "If I'd known priests made themselves at home, I'd have locked the cabinets."

He set the pot down. Turned. His face was unreadable.

"You have work today?"

"Yeah." I moved to the fridge, grabbed milk I didn't need, and anything to avoid his eyes. "Storm didn't wreck the bar, so someone's gotta keep the town drowning in whiskey."

A silence stretched, thick as smoke.

Then, softer: "Thank you. Again."

I almost laughed. "Don't make a habit of it, Father."

He didn't answer. Just lifted the mug, took a slow sip, and returned to staring out the window.

I hated how much space he took up without even trying.

Three weeks.

I could survive three weeks.

Couldn't I?

Continue Reading

You'll also like

The Billionaire's Secret Twins: Her Revenge

The Billionaire's Secret Twins: Her Revenge

Shearwater
4.4

I was four months pregnant, weighing over two hundred pounds, and my heart was failing from experimental treatments forced on me as a child. My doctor looked at me with clinical detachment and told me I was in a death sentence: if I kept the baby, I would die, and if I tried to remove it, I would die. Desperate for a lifeline, I called my father, Francis Acosta, to tell him I was sick and pregnant. I expected a father's love, but all I got was a cold, sharp blade of a voice. "Then do it quietly," he said. "Don't embarrass Candi. Her debutante ball is coming up." He didn't just reject me; he erased me. My trust fund was frozen, and I was told I was no longer an Acosta. My fiancé, Auston, had already discarded me, calling me a "bloated whale" while he looked for a thinner, wealthier replacement. I left New York on a Greyhound bus, weeping into a bag of chips, a broken woman the world considered a mistake. I couldn't understand how my own father could tell me to die "quietly" just to save face for a party. I didn't know why I had been a lab rat for my family’s pharmaceutical ambitions, or how they could sleep at night while I was left to rot in the gray drizzle of the city. Five years later, the doors of JFK International Airport slid open. I stepped onto the marble floor in red-soled stilettos, my body lean, lethal, and carved from years of blood and sweat. I wasn't the "whale" anymore; I was a ghost coming back to haunt them. With my daughter by my side and a medical reputation that terrified the global elite, I was ready to dismantle the Acosta empire piece by piece. "Tell Francis to wash his neck," I whispered to the skyline. "I'm home."

His Discarded Gem: Shining In The Ruthless Don's Arms

His Discarded Gem: Shining In The Ruthless Don's Arms

Temple Madison
5.0

For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe. On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring. Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger. Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family. When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence. "Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets." My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet. He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts. He was wrong. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use. Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed. *I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.* His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning. *The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?* I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me. I looked down and typed three letters. *Yes.*

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Dorine Koestler
4.1

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book