Page 42 of Blood Oath Christmas
“We’ll see.” There’s no hint of concern in my voice. I know Ivan Bocharov, Mila’s father, well enough to know he’s not going to start a war over this. He may love his daughter and want to combine our families, but he won’t risk the entire Bocharov family because I choose to marry someone else.
“My father will not bless this,” Mila continues in the same vein, determined to try and scare me into changing my mind. She must not know me as well as she thinks if she thinks fear tactics will work on me. “If you humiliate me, he will make sure you feel it. And if you think he’s afraid of you, you’ve forgotten who built your first alliances.”
Mila’s eyes flick to Ivy one last time, sharp as flint striking steel. “Enjoy your Christmas.” Her tone doesn’t exactly gush best wishes.
She turns and walks away, her heels crunching against the snow and ice. Her red hair disappears behind the hedges, and the air becomes less charged.
Until I look at Ivy.
“What was that?” she asks. “All of it. Starting with why she could walk in here and act like this was her house.”
“She believes it should be,” I say.
“Because of her father.” Ivy’s voice is steady. “That much was obvious.”
I lead her to the bench under the bare arbor. The iron is cold through the fabric of my pants. She stares at me for a hard minute then reluctantly sits down, shivering slightly when the coldness of the bench seeps in through her sweater dress. I keep my hands on my knees, afraid they’ll have a mind of their own and reach out to touch her, to wrap her in my arms and steal the cold from her body and warm it with mine.
“Mila’s father has pressed for a match for years,” I say. “He wants to unite our families and claims the union would make us untouchable.”
“And you’ve been telling him… what?” Her brows lift. “Maybe? We’ll see? Ask me next week?”
“No.” The word comes out like stone. “I’ve never agreed. I told him I wasn’t ready for marriage, and even if I were, I wasn’t interested in his daughter.”
“So she ‘just assumed’.” Ivy uses Mila’s words, crinkles appearing at her nose as if she finds the words distasteful. “She assumed you belonged to her. Because that’s what she was promised.”
“She was promised nothing,” I say. “That is the truth.” I sigh before continuing. “He has leverage in certain corners. He prefers to pretend that leverage extends to my life.”
“And does it?” Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Be honest.”
“Only if I allow it. Which I don’t. And never have.”
Ivy looks away toward the hedges. The winter light draws a pale gold rim around her profile. I want to put my hand over hers. I want to tell her that two days from now, the priest will tie an embroidered cloth over our hands, and old women will press bread and salt into our palms, and every vow I make will be true. But I say nothing.
She turns back. “You should have told me about her earlier.”
“I saw no reason to. I didn’t expect Mila to come by, and we were never engaged. We never even dated.”
She looks away again. A snow flurry drifts through the light like ash.
Footsteps sound on the path. Heavy, sure. Viktor’s shape appears between the hedges, his long wool coat buttoned to his throat. His breath comes out in white puffs in the cold air. He lifts a hand in greeting and stops two paces away. For once, he isn’t holding a wooden carving in his hands.
He looks at Ivy then at me. “Konstantin,” he says evenly, “we should talk.”
Ivy glances from him to me, reading the quiet tension that sits between us. She gathers herself and stands. “I’ll let you talk,” she says. “But I’m not done with you.”
“No,” I say. “You aren’t.”
Her eyes slide to my mouth and back to my eyes before she turns away. She walks toward the house with quick, purposeful steps, her hands tucked deeply into her coat pockets. A little gust of wind picks up her blonde strands and swirls them around her head before letting them settle on her shoulders again. The ache to follow her is a living thing that I have to consciously fight against.
Viktor waits until she disappears, then tips his head toward the side door of the house. “Inside,” he says. “Too many ears in the garden.”
We cross the corridor to my study. The fire has burned down to a red bed of coals. The room smells of leather, paper, and the faint bite of winter air that we’ve brought in with us. I close the door. Viktor stays standing, his big hands lightly clenched at his sides.
“Okay, out with it,” I say.
“Mila’s father.” He pauses. “He let it slip he knows about Ivy’s father. Not everything, but enough to probe. He said you pay old debts. He meant the blood oath.”
Irritation settles over me like wet wool. “Who else heard him?”
