Page 52 of Blood Oath Christmas
I find myself standing outside Konstantin's study.
The heavy oak door is closed, just as it was the other day when he caught me snooping. My pulse quickens at the memory—the heat in his eyes, the way my body responded to his proximity despite my better judgment. I shake my head, trying to dispel the memory. That's not why I'm here.
Is it?
My hand hovers over the brass doorknob. I know I shouldn't. Konstantin made it clear that his study is off-limits, his private sanctuary in this house that's supposed to be ours. But the curiosity that's been gnawing at me since our wedding night refuses to be silenced. That locked box in his desk drawer calls to me like a siren song.
What is he hiding?
Before I can second-guess myself, I turn the handle and step inside. The room smells like him—sandalwood and something darker, more dangerous. His presence lingers here even in his absence, making my skin prickle with awareness.
"Mrs. Mikhailov," Roland's voice carries a note of warning. "Perhaps?—"
"Perhaps nothing," I cut him off, spinning to face him. He stands in the doorway, his bulk filling the frame, uncertainty flickering across his usually stoic features. "I'm Konstantin's wife, which makes me your employer too, doesn't it?"
Roland's jaw tightens. "ThePakhangave specific instructions?—"
"ThePakhanisn't here." The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don't back down. "And last I checked, a wife has certain rights in her own home."
It's a bluff, and we both know it. This isn't really my home, and my marriage to Konstantin is more business arrangement than love match. But Roland doesn't need to know how uncertain I feel about my place here.
He studies me for a long moment, conflict clear in his dark eyes. Finally, he steps back. "I'll be right outside."
"You do that." I close the door firmly, then lean against it, my heart hammering. I can practically feel Roland's disapproval radiating through the wood, and I'm certain he's already reaching for his phone to text Konstantin about my transgression.
Which means I need to work fast.
The study looks exactly as it did before—imposing desk, leather chairs, walls lined with books. But now I notice details I missed in my previous hasty exploration. A small Christmas tree sits on the side table, its white lights casting a warm glow over a collection of what look like family photos. The mantelpiece is draped with garland.
It's surprisingly homey for such an intimidating room.
I force myself to focus. The desk drawer. The locked box. Whatever secrets Konstantin is keeping, they're in there. I can feel it.
My hands shake slightly as I approach the massive desk. The leather chair behind it still holds the impression of Konstantin's body, and I have to resist the urge to run my fingers over the worn spots where his hands rest. Instead, I circle around to the front and pull on the drawer handle.
Locked.
I dig into my pocket for the bobby pins I've been carrying around. Lock picking isn't exactly a skill they teach in elementary education courses, but I've always been good with my hands, good at figuring out how things work. And I've watched enough YouTube videos to have a basic understanding of the mechanics.
The first pin goes in easily, but finding the right angle for the tension wrench proves trickier. My fingers are clumsy with nerves and the knowledge that Roland is probably pressedagainst the door, listening to every sound I make. The clock on the mantel ticks loudly, marking each second that passes, each second closer to Konstantin's return.
Come on, come on.
The lock mechanism is more complex than I expected, probably some high-end security feature that costs more than my car. But I'm nothing if not stubborn, and the mystery of that box has been eating at me for days. What could be so important that Konstantin keeps it locked away? What secrets is my husband hiding?
A soft click rewards my persistence, and the drawer slides open with a whisper of well-oiled wood. My breath catches as I see the small wooden box nestled inside, exactly where I remember it. It's beautiful in its simplicity—dark wood polished to a high shine, with intricate carvings along the edges that look hand-done.
I lift it carefully, surprised by its weight. Whatever's inside isn't heavy, but the box itself feels substantial, important. My fingers trace the carved patterns, and I realize they're not just decorative—they're Cyrillic letters, Russian words I can't read.
The box has a small brass lock, much simpler than the desk drawer. This one yields to my bobby pin in seconds, as if it was never meant to keep out someone truly determined to see inside.
My hands tremble as I lift the lid.
The first thing I see is a stack of photographs, old ones with that slightly faded quality of pictures taken years ago. The top one shows a group of men in expensive suits, standing outside what looks like a restaurant. They're all smiling, arms around each other's shoulders, but there's something in their eyes that speaks of danger, of secrets.
I set that one aside and look at the next. More men, different setting. Then another, and another. Each photo seems to tell astory of brotherhood, of loyalty, of a world I'm only beginning to understand.
But it's the photograph at the bottom of the stack that makes my world tilt on its axis.
