Page 36 of Blood Oath Christmas
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I say nothing while she gathers her thoughts. A log pops in the fireplace and seems to echo in the bedroom. Ivy startles and jerks and winces. She probably thinks someone took a shot at her. Not an unreasonable assumption considering who was so-called protecting her before, but she’s here, under my roof, where she’s safe. My property has top-notch security plus armed guards watching the whole estate. Ivy just hasn’t realized she’s safe here, yet.
A nervous laugh escapes her. “God, will I ever be able to just relax? Will the rest of my life be spent looking over my shoulder and jumping at every little sound?”
I don’t lie to her. “For a while.” She winces and looks down at her hands in her lap. “Once the bastard is either behind bars or six feet under, then your life will be somewhat normal.”
She raises her head to look at me. “Then you shouldn’t have to make a lifetime commitment and marry me. We can simply wait until I testify and he goes to prison.”
I raise an eyebrow at her stubbornness to grasp the situation. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You won’t live to testify if Vadim has his way. Taking my name is the best way to protect you.”
She frowns and I can see the realization in her eyes. She knows this but isn’t ready to accept it yet. I wonder if she ever will be.
“You can’t trust the FBI, Ivy.” My voice is strong, hard. “Viktor told me he’s found another hitman, and the guy is FBI.”
19
IVY
Ican’t stop replaying in my mind Konstantin’s kiss. Every time I sit still, it rushes in—his hand firm at my waist and the way he whispered my name against my lips. Hiding in my room only makes it worse, so I pull on a sweater and slip into the hall. No one told me I had to stay put.
The house smells like fir and beeswax. Ropes of greenery climb the banisters. White lights are tucked between red ribbon and pinecones. It’s quiet enough that my steps sound too loud, but the staff who pass me only nod and keep moving, their arms full of wreaths, linen, and silver trays.
I find the library by accident. It’s two stories high with a balcony and a ladder on rails that begs to be climbed. Winter light pours through tall windows and lands in warm squares across the rugs. Shelves run end to end with books on history, economics, poetry, and entire rows of Russian authors. There are even first editions behind glass.
I trail my fingers over the spines until I can’t help it and slide out a worn copy ofAnna Kareninaand curl into a leather chair. For a few minutes, the ache in my chest fades, even as Iread about doomed lovers. It’s almost worth marrying him just to have this room. Almost.
After a while, I return the book back to its place on the shelf and continue my exploration.
Past the library, a pair of double doors opens on a gallery. That’s the only word I have for it. Paintings line the walls depicting a variety of scenes such as winter streets, storm-gray seas, and dark forests where snow clings to birch trees. There are portraits, too. Men with the same sharp eyes, women in satin and diamonds.
Little brass plaques whisper names and dates. I read each one, fitting together a family tree from fragments. One older oil looks so much like Konstantin that my breath catches. The man in the portrait has the same mouth and unblinking gaze. This has to be a family portrait gallery. The resemblance is too uncanny. I didn’t even know people still had these kinds of rooms, except maybe for nobility in England or something.
I should go back. Instead, I follow the corridor around another turn and stop at a heavy door. The handle turns under my fingers. It isn’t locked.
I stand there a long moment with my hand on the knob, arguing with myself. Curiosity isn’t a crime. Neither is taking a walk. I push the door open and step inside.
It’s warmer here, softer. A long desk sits with its back to a large window. Two chairs sit opposite it with legs angled in like they’ve been pulled close for hard conversations. A small tree glows in the corner with white lights and thin silver ornaments.
And then I catch the faint scent of Konstantin and realize I’ve stumbled into his office. I’m a little surprised. I expected his office to be more like his personality—controlled and cold.
That kiss wasn’t cold!
I shiver just at the thought of the kiss and then close the door behind me. I don’t want anyone catching me snooping around, especially in the boss’s office.
My heart beats a little too fast. “Just looking,” I assure myself.
On the credenza near the desk sits a decanter and two crystal tumblers. Beside them, an unmarked black key fob. I turn it over, searching for a logo. Nothing. I set it back exactly where it was.
The photo draws me. Up close, the glass reflects the lights on the tree, but I angle it until the glare slips away. Two boys stand on a dock, wet to the knees, hair slicked to their heads. The taller one is Konstantin. He looks younger, more carefree, but the eyes are the same. The other boy scowls into the sun like he hates the camera on principle.
I move to the bookcase and scan the spines. Ledgers. Law codes. A thin velvet box with cuff links—dark blue stone in silver. I lift them, feel the weight, and put them back. My fingers slide over a slight scratch along the shelf’s edge.
There’s a framed map on the wall with colored pins in neat rows. Dates are written in pencil in the margin. Cocking my head to the side, I study it for a minute, trying to figure out why the pins are there and what it means. Why does a Mafia guy need this kind of map? Is he planning on taking territories? Is that even a thing, other than in movies?
I shake my head. I have no idea what real Mafia life is like, but here I am, thrust into the middle of it.
The large desk and the mystery of what’s inside its drawers beckon me.
Should I? I can’t, it wouldn’t be right.
