Page 69 of Blood Oath Christmas
I think about the way he looks at me sometimes, like I'm something precious he's afraid to break. The way his voice softens when he says my name. The way he holds me after we make love, like he's memorizing the feel of me in his arms. Could there be something real growing between us, or am I just projecting my own feelings onto his actions?
The uncertainty is maddening.
I stand and move to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain to look out at the snow-covered grounds. The security lights cast long shadows across the pristine white landscape, andI can see the silhouettes of guards patrolling the perimeter. Even here, in what should be the safety of our bedroom, I'm reminded of the danger that brought us together.
Vadim Antonov is still out there somewhere, still plotting my death. The trial is still looming. The threat that made this marriage necessary hasn't disappeared just because my feelings have changed. But for the first time since this all began, I find myself hoping that when the danger passes, we can turn this into a real marriage.
A wave of nausea hits me suddenly, and I press my hand to my stomach, breathing deeply until it passes. It's the third time this week I've felt queasy, usually in the evenings when I'm tired. Combined with the other changes I've been noticing…
I shake my head firmly. I can't think about that possibility right now. There's already too much uncertainty in my life, too many variables I can't control. Adding a potential pregnancy to the mix would be overwhelming.
But even as I try to dismiss the thought, my hand remains pressed against my stomach, and I wonder if there might already be a piece of Konstantin growing inside me. The idea should terrify me. Instead, I feel a flutter of something that might be hope.
I return to the bed and slip between the cool sheets, pulling the covers up to my chin. The pillow still smells like Konstantin's cologne from this morning, and I breathe it in deeply, letting it comfort me. He's downstairs dealing with the fallout from tonight's confrontation with Mila, probably strategizing with Viktor about how to handle Ivan Bocharov's inevitable reaction to his daughter's public humiliation.
Part of me wants to go to him, to stand by his side as he navigates these treacherous family politics. But I know he needs space to handle this his way, and I'm still too emotionally raw from tonight's revelations to be much help, anyway.
My eyelids grow heavy as exhaustion finally begins to overtake the churning thoughts in my mind. Tomorrow, I'll have to face the consequences of tonight's drama. Tomorrow, I'll have to figure out how to navigate my changing feelings for Konstantin while maintaining the careful balance we've established. Tomorrow, I might have to confront the possibility that I'm carrying his child.
But right now, all I want is to sleep and forget, at least for a few hours, how complicated my life has become.
I'm just drifting off when I hear the soft click of the bedroom door opening. My heart immediately warms, thinking Konstantin has finally come to bed. I keep my eyes closed, a small smile playing at my lips as I listen to the quiet footsteps crossing the room. Maybe he'll slide into bed beside me and pull me against his chest the way he does when he thinks I'm already asleep.
But something feels wrong. The footsteps are too light, too hesitant. Konstantin moves with confidence even when he's trying to be quiet.
My eyes snap open, and I turn toward the door.
The figure standing in the shadows isn't Konstantin.
I scream.
36
KONSTANTIN
The grandfather clock in the corner of my office chimes twice, its deep resonance cutting through the silence that has settled over the estate. The New Year's party is finally winding down, the last of our guests having departed into the cold January night. Viktor sits across from my desk, his massive frame relaxed but alert, dark eyes fixed on the door as we wait.
The knock comes a moment later.
"Enter," I call out, not bothering to look up from the glass of vodka I'm nursing.
The soldier who steps through the doorway is young—maybe twenty-five—with the kind of nervous energy that immediately puts me on edge. His name is Petrov, and he's been with us for two years. Long enough to know better than to lie to his Pakhan.
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" His voice quavers slightly, and I can smell the fear-sweat on him from across the room.
I finally lift my gaze, studying his face. The guilt is written there as clearly as if he'd tattooed it on his forehead. "Sit."
Petrov glances at Viktor, who remains stone-faced, then takes the chair I've indicated. His hands fidget in his lap.
"Tell me about the three men at the gate tonight," I say, my voice deceptively calm.
The color drains from his face. "Sir, I?—”
"The truth, Petrov." I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled. "I have very little patience left tonight."
He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. ”There… there were no men at the gate."
Viktor's chair creaks as he shifts forward, but I hold up a hand to stop him. "Continue."
