Page 75 of Blood Oath Christmas
He glances down at his shoulder with the same casual interest he might show a paper cut. "It's nothing. The bullet went through."
"Nothing?" My voice cracks with hysteria. "You've been shot!"
The sight of his blood—so much blood—makes the world spin around me. This man, this impossibly strong, invincible man who makes me feel safe just by existing, is hurt. Because of me. Because he threw himself between me and danger without a second thought.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I love him. Not just the attraction, not just the way he makes me feel protected and desired. I love him with a fierce, desperate intensity that terrifies me. The thought of losing him, of watching that light fade from his green eyes, makes me want to curl up and die.
"Moya zhena," he says gently, reaching for me with his uninjured arm. "I'm fine. Look at me."
I force myself to meet his gaze, and the tenderness there nearly undoes me. Even bleeding, even after being shot protecting me, he's more concerned about my emotional state than his own physical pain.
"We need to get you back to the house," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need to clean that wound."
Viktor appears at our side, his face grim. "All clear. Three shooters, all down."
Konstantin nods, then looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "It wasn't Vadim's men."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "What do you mean?"
"The Kozlov family," Viktor answers when Konstantin remains silent. "Dmitri's cousins, seeking revenge."
I remember that name. Dmitri Kozlov, the man who stole from them. The man whose hand Konstantin ordered cut off. The violence of that punishment had shocked me then, but now, seeing the blood seeping through my husband's shirt, I understand it differently.
Back at the house, I work with steady hands to clean Konstantin's wound, grateful that the bullet passed cleanly through the muscle of his shoulder. My stomach roils at the sight of torn flesh and blood, but I push through it, focusing on taking care of him.
"You're good at this," he observes, watching me work.
"I took first aid classes," I murmur, trying not to think about how I might need these skills again in the future.
When I'm finished bandaging him, Konstantin catches my hand, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. The simple touch sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I'm amazed that even now, even after everything, he can affect me so easily.
"Ivy," he says, his voice serious. "It's time."
"Time for what?"
His green eyes hold mine, and I see something shift in their depths—a hardening, a resolution that makes my breath catch.
"Time you learned more about the family," he says quietly. "About how we deal with threats."
The words hang between us like a promise and a warning, and I know that whatever comes next will change everything.
40
KONSTANTIN
I've been shot worse than this. Hell, I've been stabbed worse than this. The bullet went clean through my shoulder, in and out, missing anything vital. But watching Ivy fuss over me like I'm dying? I'm not about to complain.
She's changed the bandage three times in the past hour, her fingers gentle as she checks the wound. Each time she touches me, even through the clinical motions of playing nurse, heat shoots through my body. The way she bites her lower lip when she concentrates, the little furrow between her brows, it's driving me crazy in the best possible way.
"You need to stay still," she murmurs, pressing fresh gauze against the exit wound on my back. Her palm flattens against my chest when I try to sit up straighter. "The doctor said no unnecessary movement for at least forty-eight hours."
"I'm fine, little bird." I catch her wrist, and stroke the pulse point there with my thumb. Her pulse is racing. "You don't need to worry so much."
"Someone shot you, Konstantin. Of course I'm going to worry." Her voice cracks slightly, and something fierce and protective roars to life in my chest.
A knock at the door interrupts us. Viktor enters without waiting for permission, Maksim close behind. Viktor's hands are busy with one of his wooden carvings, looks like a cat this time, half-finished but already showing the careful detail he's known for.
"How's the shoulder?" Viktor asks, settling into the chair by the window. His knife moves in practiced strokes, shaving thin curls of wood that fall to the floor.
