Page 45 of Blood Oath Christmas
The priest murmurs to his deacon and smooths a hand over the dark velvet cushion that holds two rings and a pair of slim beeswax tapers tied with thread. Family fills the pews in a tide of winter coats and quietly polished shoes. Old women settle scarves and children crane for a better view.
The chapel doors part again and my breath catches as Ivy steps in, her back straight and her gaze settling directly on me. Damn, but she’s a vision! Silk moves like light poured over water, and the narrow belt we chose days ago glows with pale embroidery that echoes the pattern woven into my grandmother’srushnyk. The veil falls from a silver comb set in glossy hair, and the delicate pearls stitched along its edge catchevery flame. Ivy’s hands betray a slight tremor before her fingers tighten around the bouquet of winter jasmine and evergreen.
I can’t believe I’m about to marry Ivy. That she, who has been my charge all these years, will now be my wife. I will have the right to have her in my bed. My blood heats from the thought and I force myself to pay attention to the ceremony.
The priest inclines his head and begins talking, asking for peace and for God to “join His servants in concord”, the words older than any of us. He blesses the rings with the Sign of the Cross over the Gospel book three times, and the metal glints with each pass.
The deacon brings them to us, and I take Ivy’s smaller band while he hands her my ring. We exchange the rings three times, trading them back and forth so that each of us wears the other’s pledge, the circle becoming habit and the habit becoming bond.
We move together into the nave, where the table has been set with the Gospel, a silver-rimmed cup of wine, two crowns resting on velvet pads, and therushnykfolded with care. Candles glow in brass stands, and the scent of frankincense hums along the air like low music. Arushnykis set before our feet and we step on it.
“May your joining be honorable and undefiled,” the priest says.
He lifts the crowns that have been used in my family weddings for generations. A little dented from years of wear, they have graced my grandparents’ heads at their wedding, along with two uncles, and a cousin whose ceremony ended in gunfire. The bride became a wife and a widow in the space of a few minutes.
The priest signs the air above Ivy’s veil with the first crown and sets it gently upon her head. Light catches on the gold, softening her features. He crowns me next, and the weight reminds me of my duty, honor, and my determination to protect Ivy at all costs. Even if that cost is my own life.
“Lord, our God, crown them with glory and honor,” the priest intones. The deacon loops therushnykaround our joined right hands, not tight, just enough to mark the binding. A current moves through the guests as everyone recognizes the old gestures. A child whispers “ne-vyesta,”bride, and someone hushes him quietly.
We step to the table for the common cup. The priest offers it first to Ivy, and the way her lips touch the rim with careful reverence sends a hard ache through every civilized intention I brought into the room. The cup comes to me and I drink, keeping my eyes trained on Ivy. She blinks, looks away shyly, then returns her gaze to mine.
The deacon lifts the Gospel book and the priest leads us in the Dance of Isaiah around the table. Three circles mark the steps, joy, unity, eternity. Ivy’s crown tilts a fraction but she gently and quickly rights it. By the third turn, Ivy’s mouth curves, her nervousness starting to fade away.
We remove our crowns, and the priest holds them over our heads while he prays.
“Lord of mercy, as these crowns return to velvet, let Your blessing remain. Lighten the gold from their heads and leave love upon their shoulders. Grant long years, a peaceful home, and children who rise like olive shoots around their table.
“King of glory, the weight of honor lifts, but let honor stay within them. Keep their laughter strong, their patience deep, and their hearth warm with sons and daughters in due season.”
He places our crowns on the velvet, then continues with the final prayer.
“Lord, who gave Isaac to Abraham and Sarah and raised Mary in the home of Joachim and Anna, look kindly on this marriage. Plant them by living waters, bless their years with fruitfulness, and let mercy be their inheritance.
“O Faithful One, who turned barrenness into song and patience into promise, strengthen these, your servants. Give them long life, good children, and a lineage known for kindness.”
In our church, no one says “I do.” Consent happens by standing and staying. Commitment.
I turn to Ivy, taking her hands in mine. “Hello, Wife,” I whisper for her ears only.
She smiles. “Husband.”
It’s only one word, but I feel it like a caress across my body. Leaning forward, I press my mouth to hers and claim her for one and all to see. The kiss isn’t hesitant. It isn’t sweet and chaste. It’s powerful. Hungry. Possessive.
And Ivy responds in like, just as I’d hoped. She wraps her arms around my neck and leans into the kiss, meeting and matching my rhythm perfectly. For a second, I forget where I am, that we’re in front of family and friends, and almost toss her over my shoulder to take her to my bed. But hoots and hollers congratulating us finally penetrate the lustful haze and I pull back, breaking the kiss.
Looking at Ivy, though, the way her lips are pink and slightly swollen, the way her eyes are dazed and passion-filled, almost makes me change my mind. Screw the guests, I want to take Ivy to my bed and make her my wife in every way.
Instead, I hold her hand as we walk down the short aisle in my estate’s chapel. Old women tap our heads lightly with their fingertips for luck. An uncle pretends he’s wiping dust from my sleeve and leaves a folded blessing in my palm. A cousin slips a sugared almond into Ivy’s bouquet, the way village brides got a taste of sweetness even when the harvest failed back in the day.
My eyes scan the pews without thinking, looking for threats out of habit. Mila stands near the pillar to the left, that red mouth a study in restraint. Her father keeps a hand on her shoulder in a grip that looks light but isn’t. His nod when oureyes meet holds respect rather than hostility, a small treaty signed in the presence of icons.
The chapel spills us into the hall, where straw lies under the white tablecloths in a quiet nod to the manger. The first star has already shown in the brittle sky, so the fast ends with gratitude. Twelve dishes come from the kitchen in a steady parade—jewel-toned borscht that warms frozen fingers, mushroom broth for those who keep the fast strictly, herring with beets and onion that gleams like coins for luck, cabbage rolls stuffed with rice and finely chopped mushrooms,varenikislicked with oil, roasted potatoes with wild mushrooms gone silky in the heat, buckwheat in a great clay bowl, pickled cucumbers that bite in the best way, honeyed apples that fill the room with perfume, baked fish laid out with lemon and herbs, two simple salads—carrot with raisins, cabbage with walnuts and poppy seed—and, last of all, thekutya, wheat berries glossed with honey and freckled with poppy seed, walnuts, and tiny pieces of dried apricot.
Aunt Daria brings thekutyaherself and sets the first bowl before Ivy with the kind of gravity usually reserved for treaties. “For sweetness and for strength,” she says.
Mila’s father joins at the samovar, a glass of tea in one hand, his expression neutral. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Ivy says carefully. The uncertainty in her eyes irritates me. I don’t like that she feels uncomfortable or unsure of Ivan Bocharov’s intentions. Hell, I’m not even sure what’s really going on in that man’s mind.
