Page 28 of Blood Oath Christmas
I cut her off. “Of course it is. You’re marrying the head of the Mikhailov family. There’s an image to uphold and I won’t have you wed in rags.”
She looks down at her outfit, a pair of beige slacks and a black wool sweater, then tilts a wry smile at me. “I wouldn’t exactly call these rags.”
“It’s not a wedding dress, either,” I counter.
She drinks the last sip of her tea, nods, then gets to her feet. If I would have been thinking straight, instead of watching the way her blonde hair has the slightest upward curl when it reaches her slender shoulders, I would have done the polite thing and pulled her chair out for her.
But when it comes to Ivy Andreev, I rarely think straight.
I do remember to grab her coat off the rack by the door and hold it out for her. She looks at me curiously, as if trying to decide whether to accept my assistance, then shrugs her arms into the thick winter jacket. My fingers find her shoulders and pull the wool into place. I take an extra beat to settle the collar because it allows me to touch her without being inappropriate. She goes still, then breathes. Warmth radiates from her body, a sign that she is alive and well. If she had stayed with the FBI fuckups, she’d be dead by now.
In the hall, garlands and ikon lamps throw a warm light. The house smells of beeswax and pine and a faint ribbon of clove from the kitchen.
Outside, the cold is clean enough to bite. The convoy waits—my black G-class in front, a second behind, and a third idling at the gate. I don’t flaunt power because power that needs flaunting isn’t real, but I don’t hide it either. People are less brave when they think twice, and three SUVs full of men who would rather shoot first, ask questions later, tends to make people think a bit harder before trying something stupid.
Viktor opens the back door. “Ptichka,” he says to Ivy, calling her a little bird. “You can ride behind me.”
Ivy gives him a small smile and climbs into the backseat behind the driver’s chair. I follow, and the interior fills withher unique scent, something a little spicy but tempered with lavender and maybe a hint of citrus.
The gates close behind us with their usual groan. Ivy watches the city slide past in winter colors, the shop windows glazed with frost. She sits stiff and uncomfortable, as if she expects to be ambushed at any second. No surprise there since that’s exactly what we did to her the other day.
“You’re safe,” I say, my voice low and full of command.
It doesn’t seem to reassure her. “That’s what the FBI told me, yet Vadim’s men found the safehouse and we barely got out with our lives. Then you…” Ivy pauses and stares at me. “You and your guys were able to take me away from them.”
“That should make you feel more confident instead of less. The fact that we kept Vadim’s men from getting to you at the safehouse?—”
“That was you?” she interrupts, then shakes her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t put two and two together and realize that sooner. I mean, I knew there were others out there fighting Vadim’s guys, but I guess I never gave it any other thought with everything else going on.”
I nod. “Yeah, it was us. The bastard has a few less men to go after you now.” Ivy flinches, but I ignore it. Whether she wants to or not, whether she’s ready or not, she will soon be part of the family and will have to get used to the way we do business. “And then we were able to take you from the FBI without a single punch or bullet spent. So, yes, you should feel a lot safer with me.”
The way her mouth screws up as she ponders my words shouldn’t turn me on, but it does.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, drawing my attention from her mouth. “You’ve never told me.”
“That’s a story for another time,” I say with a frown. One of these days, soon, I have to tell her about the blood oath. But I’m not ready.
She doesn’t look too pleased with my answer and changes the subject. “Where exactly are we going?”
“To a bridal shop owned by a cousin by marriage,” I say. “Her name is Taisia and she’s closed the shop just for us.”
“Do I get a say in the dress?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course. It’s your day.” Then, just in case she is thinking about tapping into that rebellious streak of hers, I add, “Within reason, of course.”
Viktor’s eyes catch mine in the mirror. He tips his chin to indicate the streets are clear. No sign of Vadim’s men or the FBI. The boutique sits on a quiet block off the main street, an old building with tall windows and carved stone lintels. The sign readsTaisia Bridalin gold script.
Viktor steps out first. He signals the two posted men already on the corner, then puts one at the shop door and one by the alley. Maksim stays with the cars. I take Ivy’s hand to help her from the SUV. Her fingers are cool, steady.
A brass bell announces our arrival as I push the door open. The place smells of steam and starch and perfume. Bolts of silk are stacked along the back wall for those who need adjustments to their dresses or for those who want an original creation. Racks of white and off-white dresses wrapped in muslin the color of cream line the other walls. A long mirror throws back light in a soft wash.
Taisia is already at the counter. She wipes her palms on a dark apron and comes to greet us with the kind of embrace you reserve for family you respect. She kisses the air beside my cheek.
“Good morning, Taisia,” I greet with a genuine smile. “As promised, I’ve brought you my bride. Ivy Andreev, meet mycousin and the best seamstress in the city—and beyond. Taisia, my fiancée.”
“Andreev?” Taisia says with a puckered brow. “Are you Andrei Andreev’s little girl all grown up now?”
Ice slides a clean line down my spine. Ivy goes still beside me.
