Page 39 of Blood Oath Christmas
The memory fades, but it doesn’t let go. The sound of the gunfire, the sting of blood in the air, Andrei’s eyes locking on mine—it all lingers like smoke after a fire. He gave me his trust. I swore on blood to keep it.
And now?
I lean back in the chair, my hands tightening on the arms. Every time I look at Ivy, I feel that vow twisting inside me. I promised to protect her. To shield her from men like me. Yet when she stood in this office, I didn’t think of protection. I thought of her body pressed against mine. I thought of claiming her.
The desire that runs through me is raw and merciless. It doesn’t care about promises or blood oaths. And it makes me feel like a traitor.
Andrei saved my life. He gave me a future I shouldn’t have had. And I’m dishonoring him with every lustful thought I can’t push away.
I drag a hand down my face, trying to shove the fire back down where it belongs. Wanting her is weakness. Worse—it’s betrayal. Protecting her honors him. Touching her would desecrate his memory.
But she’s going to be my wife. I’m upholding my blood oath, so why do I feel like I’m betraying Andrei’s memory?
Except when I see her, when I smell her, when she looks at me with those wide blue eyes, I feel that promise twisting into something darker. Wanting her dishonors him. Not wanting her dishonors me. There’s no clean way forward.
I stand, pace the room once, twice. The fire in the grate is dead. The cold matches the hollow ache in my chest. Duty over desire. That’s where I’m at right now. Am I dishonoring my duty to Andrei by desiring his daughter? Maybe, knowing how he was, Andrei would be thrilled because it would only reinforce my determination to keep Ivy safe if I have feelings for her.
A knock sounds at my door, pulling me out of my conflicting thoughts.
“Come in,” I call out.
Viktor walks in, and I can tell by his expression that whatever he’s here for, it’s not good news. His dark brown eyes are darkened, almost black. His brows are pinched between his nose, and his mouth is set in a grim line.
“Out with it,” I order, wanting to get the bad news out and just deal with it.
“Mila is here,” he says, distaste firm in his voice.
“Shit,” I respond.
21
IVY
The tray from last night still sits untouched on the small table by the window. A congealed slice of roast, cold bread, and a half-empty glass of water. Anya had brought me dinner in my room last night. She gave me a sympathetic half smile before placing it on the table and leaving me to my thoughts.
Hiding in this room seemed like my only choice. Safer than seeing Konstantin’s green eyes practically devouring me where I stood. Safer than being near enough to remember how close he came to kissing me—again. Because if I’d let him, I know exactly what would have happened. He said as much, and I know I wouldn’t have stopped him.
I would have been in his bed—or on the desk in his office—faster than I could blink.
The admission lingers like a bruise under the skin. That knowledge kept me awake long into the night. This morning, though, hiding feels weak. Childish, even. Staying locked up while decisions are made without me will only make things worse. My life has been dragged into his world, and pretending I can avoid it is foolish. If I’m really marrying Konstantin, then I need some kind of control.
Two days. Two days until Christmas. Two days until the wedding.
And I’ve done nothing to prepare.
It’s absurd to care about the ceremony, a wedding I don’t even want. The marriage isn’t for love. It’s for survival. Yet, something in me recoils at the thought of standing before him and treating it like a business deal. If I’m to do this, if I’m to give up the life I knew, then I want it to mean something. If marriage to Konstantin is the safest option—and it is—then I need to pull up my little girl panties and get to work.
I head for the elegant bathroom and stand there for a minute, letting the tiled floor warm my bare feet. In the shower, hot water pounds my neck and shocks my thoughts into order. After toweling off, I pull on a sweater dress with thick tights and boots. I blow dry my shoulder-length hair to give it some body, add a little lip gloss and mascara, then leave my room.
The hallway is quiet, except for the guard Konstantin has watching over my room. I give the man a nod, a new guard I haven’t seen yet, and go in search of my soon-to-be husband. His study is empty. The library smells like old paper and woodsmoke, but no one sits in the wingback chairs. The small chapel near the back hall is lit by a single candle, but other than a woman, part of the staff, I think, it’s empty, too.
A flash of motion through tall glass draws me toward the garden doors. Frost glitters on boxwood and rose canes. The beds hold winter-hardy color that someone planned with care. I recognize holly with red berries, hellebores with pale blooms that look like porcelain, and sprays of dusty blue juniper.
And there he is. Konstantin sits in the middle of it on a black iron bench like a man dropped into a painting. He sits with his head tilted back and eyes closed, as if he’s trying to absorb the weak winter sun.
Something shifts inside me seeing him there. Out of his suit and away from the weight of walls, he looks relaxed… peaceful, even. Not two adjectives I would have ever used to describe Konstantin Mikhailov.
As if he senses me watching him from behind the glass, he lowers his head and looks right at me. Those green eyes seem to bore right through me, burning through my veins, zipping along my nerves.
