Page 59 of Blood Oath Christmas
"No," I agree. "She's not broken.”
Viktor is quiet for a moment, his gaze returning to the house. "She was living half a life before, Konstantin. Working at that club, going through the motions with that boyfriend of hers. She was sleepwalking through her own existence."
He's right, though I don't like admitting it. When I first started watching Ivy from a distance, fulfilling my promise to keep Andrei's daughter safe, I'd seen a woman who seemed to be waiting for something to happen to her rather than making things happen herself. The only time she'd seemed truly alive was when she was doing something dangerous—skydiving, rock climbing, pushing herself to the edge.
"She needs this," Viktor continues. "Not the danger, not the violence, but the purpose. The feeling that her life matters, that she matters."
He shifts again, his hand moving to rest on the door handle. "Because I've seen the way she looks at you when she thinks no one is watching. It's the same way you look at her."
Before I can ask him what he means by that, movement catches my eye. A figure in a dark hoodie is walking slowly down the sidewalk across the street, hands shoved deep in pockets, head down. Something about the way he moves, the deliberate casualness of his pace, sets off every alarm bell in my head.
"Viktor," I say quietly, my hand moving instinctively toward my weapon.
He follows my gaze and tenses. "I see him."
The figure pauses directly across from Trisha's house, and though I can't see his face in the shadow of the hood, I can feel his attention focused on the building where my wife is having what might be the most difficult conversation of her life.
31
IVY
The familiar scent of vanilla candles and disappointment hits me the moment I step through the front door of my childhood home. Nothing has changed—the same beige walls, the same generic artwork from HomeGoods, the same suffocating atmosphere that made me count down the days until I could escape to college.
My mother stands in the doorway to the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, her perfectly styled auburn hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. She's wearing a cream-colored sweater that probably cost more than I used to make in a week at Otrava, and her makeup is flawless despite it being barely past noon. Trisha Andreev—well, Trisha Morrison now, since she went back to her maiden name after Dad died—has always been beautiful in that polished, untouchable way that makes you feel like you're somehow lacking just by existing in her presence.
"Ivy." Her voice is flat, devoid of any warmth or surprise. "This is unexpected."
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling like I'm sixteen again and coming home past curfew. "Hi, Mom."
She doesn't move to hug me, doesn't invite me to sit down. We just stand there in the entryway, two strangers who happen to share DNA and a complicated history of mutual disappointment.
"You look…" She pauses, her green eyes scanning me from head to toe with the clinical precision of someone appraising livestock. "Different."
I know what she sees—the expensive clothes Konstantin insisted on buying me, the way I carry myself now with more confidence, the subtle changes that come from being cherished by someone who actually gives a damn about your wellbeing. But I also know she's looking for flaws, for signs that I've somehow failed to live up to whatever impossible standard she's set for me this time.
"Can we talk?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.
She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "I suppose you'd better come in."
The living room is exactly as I remember it—pristine, cold, and completely devoid of personality. She gestures to the white leather sofa that I was never allowed to sit on as a child, and I perch on the edge of it like I'm afraid I might leave a stain.
"Coffee?" she offers, though her tone suggests she's hoping I'll decline.
"No, thank you."
She settles into the matching armchair across from me, crossing her legs at the ankle in that practiced way that used to irritate me. Still does, for whatever reason. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence stretching between us like a chasm that's been growing wider for years.
"So," she says finally, "to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? It's been what, six months since you last called?"
The guilt hits me like a physical blow, even though I know she's being manipulative. "I've been busy."
"Busy." She repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "Yes, I imagine serving drinks to drunk Russians keeps you quite occupied."
I bite back the sharp retort that springs to my lips. Getting into an argument with her won't help me get the answers I need. "Actually, I'm not working at Otrava anymore."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "Oh? Did you finally come to your senses and quit that awful job?"
"Something like that." I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to ask. There's no easy way to do this, no gentle lead-in that will make this conversation any less explosive. "Mom, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
