Page 25 of Blood Oath Christmas
My breath catches in my lungs. I don’t know why I didn’t put it together earlier. I mean, Konstantin has been the one calling the shots, telling others what to do. But somehow, finding out he’s not just Mafia, he’s theheadof it, throws me for a loop. He’s not only powerful, but he’s also themostpowerful.
And the most dangerous.
The woman goes to the closet and sets the bags on the floor inside. When she pulls the doors open, light spills over organized shelves. A few pieces already hang there—dark wool, a soft cashmere coat the color of wet stone, a cream sweater folded like a cloud.
“I laid towels in your bath,” she says. “Hot water is ready. Breakfast soon.”
“Wait—what’s your name?” I ask.
She turns with a small smile that reaches her eyes. “Anya.”
“Anya,” I repeat. “Thank you.”
She nods and then hesitates at the door. “I knew your father,” she says, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. My heart jerks. “Long time ago. He was a good man.”
I am too stunned to speak. The room tilts as Anya leaves me alone with that surprise. She knew my father? How? How would a maid for the Russian Mafia know my father? Maybe it was before she started working for Konstantin.
Dad died in a car crash when I was fifteen, and although he was away a lot on business, we were still very close. Much closer than me and Mom. Whenever he came home, he always set aside time for us to hang out. When he died, I lost a huge part of myself.
I’m not used to running into people who knew him. Since his job meant a lot of traveling, most of the people he knew didn’t live around us. So to be here, kept as a prisoner under the guise of protection, in a Russian Mafia house, and then to find someone who knew him? It’s just so… surreal.
I push the thoughts away before I end up crying and head for the shower. The bathroom is attached to the bedroom and looks like it belongs in a high-end hotel. Old stone, or at least what appears to be old stone, covers the walls. There’s a deep tub with a separate glass encased shower. On the wall there are several light switches. I turn one on and nothing happens… at first, then the floor starts heating up. Wow, heated tiles! I find the light switch and turn it on.
Someone, maybe Anya, lined the counter with folded towels and set toiletries in a little wooden tray—soap that smells like fir needles when you crush them in your fingers, a bottle of shampoo labeled in Cyrillic, a tiny bottle of oil that smells faintly like clove and orange. When I turn the shower handle, the pipes hum and the water comes hot and fast.
I stand there a long time and let the hot water drum the last few days off my skin, then get out and towel off with, you guessed it, a fluffy, large heated towel.
Padding barefoot into my prison room, I glance at the shopping bags sitting in the closet that Anya left for me.Everything is classic and expensive and exactly my size. Black jeans with a little stretch. Two soft turtlenecks—one charcoal, one winter white. A pair of wool trousers, a silk blouse, and a sweater dress that looks like it belongs on a magazine cover. There’s also thermal tights to protect my legs from the cold weather and thick, fluffy socks.
Buried in tissue are a pair of flat black boots lined with shearling and simple leather ankle boots with a low heel. Another bag has underthings and camisoles with tags from places I could never afford. There’s a coat in the closet —cashmere, big lapels, deep pockets. It’s the kind of coat you buy when you plan to outlast winter.
At the bottom of the Neiman’s bag, something wooden knocks against my knuckles. I pull back the paper and my breath catches. It’s a small carving, no bigger than my palm—a sleeping hare, ears tucked, paws folded underneath it. The grain of the wood makes fur. There’s a tiny nick near one ear where the knife must have slipped and been sanded smooth. When I turn it over, carved letters jump out at me.
I.A. Ivy Andreev. My initials.
My throat tightens. Viktor. It has to be. His wooden animals keep appearing like breadcrumbs. This one isn’t a warning. It’s… permission? Welcome? What is he trying to tell me with all these carved animals?
I dress in the charcoal turtleneck, black jeans, and lined flats, then dab a little of the oil on my wrists. I test the door handle, surprised that it’s not locked. Did Anya leave it that way on purpose or did she not realize I’m to be a prisoner? She did mention that breakfast would be ready soon, so I guess I’m allowed to leave for meals. But then, I only caught a brief glimpse of this fortress when I was rushed in here last night, so I have no idea where the kitchen is.
A surprised gasp escapes me when I open the door to find Konstantin standing on the other side, his hand raised as if about to knock. He’s wearing all black, the collar of his shirt open just enough that the point of ink climbing his throat peeks out—dragon scale and lines. His hair is dark, his jaw clean, his eyes a green that looks gray until light hits them. There’s a dimple on his right cheek and I hate that I notice it, hate more that some treacherous part of me keeps a catalog—height, hands, the way he moves like he knows where everyone else is in the room without needing to look.
“Good morning,” Konstantin says.
I only raise an eyebrow. I’m his prisoner, after all. He offers an arm, but I ignore that too. He doesn’t seem offended. He just matches his stride to mine and we walk down the staircase past a huge Christmas tree. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one so big that wasn’t outside a department store or something. The light through the windows turns the decorative icicles hanging from it into spears of gold.
We stroll into a dining area where a small table for four sits near the windows with a white cloth, heavy silver, and napkins folded like stars. Only two places have cups. A samovar glows on the sideboard, and the smell of tea wraps around my stomach and squeezes.
Anya comes in with a tray and a smile and sets down bowls of kasha with dried fruit and honey, slices of dark bread, and a small dish of jam that shines like rubies. She sets a cup in front of me then pours hot water from the samovar into it.
“Spasibo,” I say, thanking her in her native tongue, and her smile shows in her eyes before she turns and disappears.
I’m too hungry to wait for any niceties and dig right in.
“You’re angry,” he says, not a question.
I set the spoon down so I don’t slam it. “You took me from the FBI.”
“Yes,” he says. He sips his tea without taking his eyes off me. “If I can take you without spilling blood, what do you think Antonov’s men can do with fewer rules and more desperation?”
