Page 26 of Blood Oath Christmas
Konstantin sighs and sets down his fork. “Last night, I took care of another problem you have.”
I raise my eyebrows and wait until I finish chewing before talking. “Another problem?”
He nods. “It’s not just Antonov’s men coming after you. He’s hired hitmen as well.” He pauses to let that sink in. My stomach rolls and I set my silverware down with a shaky hand. “I took care of them last night,” he continues. “And left a message for anyone else foolish enough to go after you.”
“When you say ‘took care of them’…”
“Let’s just say you never have to worry about them.” His tone is flat, no emotion. No remorse. I know he means he killed them, and I should be horrified. I should be terrified. But all I can think of is that they were going to kill me and now they won’t be able to.
“Thank you.” My voice is quiet but sincere.
He raises a surprised eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
“How much longer do I have to stay here?”
“Is it really so terrible?” he asks. “You haven’t even been here twenty-four hours yet. Give it some time.”
No, it’s not so terrible. If I’m being honest with myself, it’s actually quite nice—except for the being locked in with bars on the windows bit. My room is grander than anything I’ve ever stayed in before. The food, at least this breakfast, is amazing. And all these new clothes…
“I haven’t thanked you for the clothes,” I say suddenly.
He waves a dismissive hand. “There’s no need.”
“I haven’t thanked you because I’m not sure I appreciate it.” When his green eyes meet mine, I feel as if he’s looking deeper than just the surface. As if he can see right through me to mydeepest thoughts and desires. “I would rather have my own clothes.” A lie, but I don’t feel comfortable accepting gifts from him. Even though he owes it to me since he stole me away from protective custody with only the used clothes on my back. But he’s Mafia. He’s a killer.
And he’s absolutely gorgeous.
The air of danger that surrounds him attracts me even more, which is crazy. I like safe men, like Frank. Guys who aren’t out killing those he disagrees with.
A lock of dark hair hangs over his forehead, almost to his right eye. I want to reach across the table and smooth that hair aside. His face is tanned, and that dimple in his cheek is distracting as hell. He’s tall, too, at least 6’3”, with a nice lean and muscular body.
But Konstantin is much older than me. Not that I have anything against older men, but he’s old enough to be my father and I don’t have those kinds of Daddy issues.
“Have you given more thought to becoming my wife?”
His question startles me and I choke on the tea I was just taking a sip of.
“It’s the best way to protect you,” he continues. “You’ll be safer than the president of the United States.” His mouth curves, not a smile, exactly—something colder.
The worst part is that I believe him. Not because he’s bragging, but because he doesn’t have to. His voice is flat, not loud, and it pulls at something deep inside me. His confidence is comforting, promising.
I look down at the hare in my pocket and curl my fingers around it like a worry stone. The wood is warm from my skin.
“And if I say no?”
He holds my gaze a long beat, then repeats what he’d told me earlier. “Then you’re dead.”
We eat in a quiet that is not comfortable and not hostile. It just is. The jam is tart, but delicious, and the bread is so warm and fluffy that it practically melts in my mouth.
When I’m halfway to full, I set my spoon down and lean back and stare at the samovar like I can read answers in the metal.
“Anya said she knew my father,” I say.
His eyes jerk up to mine, but that’s the only reaction I see. “She did,” he says.
My heart thumps once, hard. “How?”
“At the restaurant,” he says. “Long time ago.”
