Page 66 of Blood Oath Christmas
The way Viktor says 'wife' makes it clear he knows exactly how complicated this situation is about to become. My mouth goes dry, and I instinctively move closer to Konstantin.
"We'll be right there." Konstantin's hand presses more firmly against my back. "Stay close to me, Ivy. Don't leave my side."
"Why? What's going to happen?"
But he's already guiding me back toward the door, his jaw set in that way that means trouble. As we step back into the warmth and light of the party, I scan the crowd until I spot them.
Ivan Bocharov is a short, round man with piercing blue eyes that seem to take in everything. But it's the woman beside him who makes my blood run cold.
Mila is beautiful in a sharp, predatory way, with flame-red hair and green eyes that are currently fixed on me with undisguised hatred. But it's her expression that makes my stomach drop—she looks like a cat that's just cornered a particularly tasty mouse.
She looks like she knows something I don't.
As we approach, I feel Konstantin's hand stiffen against my back, his fingers pressing into my spine in a way that's almost painful. Whatever Mila's game is, whatever she's planning, Konstantin knows it's not going to be good.
Mila's smile widens as we get closer, and I realize with growing dread that she looks exactly like a cat that's just eaten the canary.
And I have the terrible feeling that I'm about to find out what she's been feeding on.
34
KONSTANTIN
The sight of Mila standing in my foyer, draped in a dress that costs more than most people make in a month, sends irritation crawling up my spine like ice. I didn't invite her. The invitation was extended to her father, Ivan Bocharov, as a matter of business courtesy—nothing more. Hell, I didn’t even expect him to show, and I should have realized that giving him an invitation would mean Mila would show too. But somehow, I thought she’d have better sense.
Ivy's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my arm, and I can feel the tension radiating from her small frame. She's trying to hide it, but I know her well enough now to read the subtle signs. The way her shoulders square just slightly, the barely noticeable lift of her chin. My little wife is preparing for battle, and something primal in me responds to that show of strength.
"Mila," I say, my voice carefully neutral as we approach. "I wasn't expecting you."
She turns toward us with that practiced smile of hers, the one that never quite reaches her green eyes. There's something else there tonight, though—a gleam that sets my teeth on edge. Milais up to something. I've known her long enough to recognize when she's plotting.
"Konstantin, darling," she purrs, stepping forward as if she intends to embrace me. I don't move, keeping Ivy firmly at my side, and Mila's smile falters for just a fraction of a second before she recovers. "I came with Papa, of course. You know how he hates these social gatherings without me to smooth the way."
It's bullshit, and we both know it. Ivan Bocharov has been navigating social and business situations since before Mila was born. But I don't call her on the lie. Not yet.
"Of course," I reply smoothly. "How thoughtful of you."
My eyes find Maksim across the room, and I catch his attention with a subtle nod toward Mila. His dark gaze follows mine, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod of understanding. Keep an eye on her. Maksim has been with me long enough to read my signals without question.
"And this must be your… wife," Mila continues, her gaze sliding to Ivy with barely concealed disdain. The way she says 'wife' makes it sound like a temporary inconvenience.
"Ivy," my wife says, extending her hand with more grace than Mila deserves. "Welcome to our… home."
Mila takes the offered hand, but I notice how her grip lingers just a moment too long, how her smile sharpens at the edges. "How lovely. And so young."
The comment is designed to wound, to make Ivy feel small and out of place. But my wife doesn't flinch. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, that hint of a smile playing at her lips that I've come to recognize as dangerous.
"Thank you," Ivy says sweetly. "Youth does have its advantages."
I have to bite back a smile at the subtle barb. My little wife has claws when she needs them.
The evening progresses, and I try to stay close to Ivy, but the demands of hosting pull me in different directions. Business conversations that can't be avoided, introductions that must be made, the careful dance of maintaining alliances and showing respect to the right people. Each time I'm drawn away from her side, I feel that familiar tension in my chest—the need to keep her close, to protect her.
It's more than duty now, though I'm still coming to terms with that realization. Somewhere between her defiant glares and soft sighs, between watching her stand up to Mila and seeing her curl into my side when she thinks no one is looking, something fundamental has shifted. The protective instincts I've always felt have deepened into something more complex, more consuming.
Love. The word sits heavy in my chest, both terrifying and inevitable. Best to table those thoughts for now.
I'm discussing shipping routes with Alec Sidorov when I realize I haven't seen Ivy in several minutes. My eyes scan the room automatically, searching for that familiar fall of blonde hair, the elegant line of her shoulders in the midnight blue dress I chose for her.
