Page 20 of Blood Oath Christmas
I pause before the great tree, looking at the ornaments that glimmer softly. Hand-painted glass, wooden carvings, silver crosses—my mother’s hands once hung them. The ghost of her voice still echoes here, especially during the holidays. Christmas was always her favorite and she enjoyed decorating, hanging ornaments, and baking holiday treats.
Now I’ve got Ivy locked up. Do I feel guilty? Maybe a little, but it’s necessary to keep her safe. I look at my watch. Two hours have gone by. Hopefully, that’s enough time for her to calm down because I can’t wait any longer.
I knock on Ivy’s door but don’t wait for an answer, instead inserting my key and opening the door. Firelight glows against her face where she’s curled in a chair, her knees drawn up to her chest. She slowly raises her head to look at me. I wince, my heart clenching. There are tear tracks down her cheeks and I hate that I’m responsible for making her cry.
But it can’t be helped. Not if I’m going to keep Vadim, or one of his hitmen, from getting to her.
“You can’t keep me here,” Ivy says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I can.”
Her lips tremble, but she holds my gaze as she straightens out her legs. “The agents will come for me. They need me to testify?—”
“The Feds can’t protect you,” I say, stepping further into the room. “Vadim is already free. He’s also put a hit on you. The law can’t keep you safe from that. Not like I can.”
She shakes her head, her laugh bitter. “So you’ll just lock me up instead? Until when?”
I stand before her, the fire crackling at my back. My hands curl into fists. There is only one answer.
“Until you’re my wife.”
Her breath stutters and those gorgeous blue eyes widen. “What?”
“It is the only way,” I say, my voice steady, final. “A Mafia wife is untouchable. Bound to me, under my name, no one—not Vadim, not his men, not even the Feds—will dare take you. You will be safe.”
She stares at me, her shock plain, her lips parted in disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she whispers.
“I am.”
The silence stretches, heavy as stone. The fire pops, casting sparks up the chimney.
“We will marry,” I tell her. “On Christmas.”
11
IVY
My mouth goes dry.
I don’t breathe for a beat. The room tilts, the fire pops, and his words hang in the air between us like a blade. I wait for my voice, for anger, for the kind of panic that makes my hands shake and my mouth run, but nothing comes at first. It’s like my brain’s buffering, watching the moment circle and circle without loading.
He doesn’t look away. He’s the sort of man who says a thing like it’s already happened, who speaks and the world rearranges itself to agree. I stare at him, words caught somewhere between my throat and lips. The fire crackles behind him, sparks shooting up the chimney, but all I can hear is the thundering of my pulse.
“Until you’re my wife,”he’d said. It echoes in my head like thunder.
I’ve seen him before. At Otrava. He was always in the corners—those private tables half in shadow, half in neon. He’d usually come in late, a couple of hours before closing. I’d pass his table with change for a customer, or a towel to clean tables, or a tray, and feel the air pull toward him like a tide in the ocean. He neverreached for me. He never touched me. But I felt watched in a way that didn’t make my skin crawl. For some reason, his silent presence made me feel safe. Protected.
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
That’s it. No flourish, no softening. Just the truth as he sees it. I grip the arms of the chair, not ready to stand yet. I don’t trust my legs to support me. My entire body feels light as air, as if the smallest breeze will scatter me around the room. The flames in the fireplace crackle, chewing through a log until it collapses inward and sends a storm of sparks up the chimney.
“What’s enough?” I ask.
“That you’re alive.” The words land flat, controlled. “And that men are hunting you.”
