Page 19 of Blood Oath Christmas
Snow crunches softly beneath my boots as I shift closer to the trees. The curtains are thin, half-open, and through them, I see her.
Ivy sits at a table with three agents with playing cards scattered between them The men laugh softly, pretending to be at ease. She holds her cards carefully, her lips twitching atsomething one of them says. For a moment, I see her almost smile.
The sight twists something inside me. I should be relieved—she is alive, she is breathing, she is not broken. But relief is not what I feel. It is hunger. Hunger to take her out of that house, away from men who cannot protect her, away from the eyes of anyone but me.
As if sensing the weight of my stare, her head lifts. Her gaze slides to the window. Our eyes lock.
For one suspended heartbeat, she sees me. I know she does. Her hand stills on the cards, her lips part, and her body tenses.
I step back into shadows, letting the curtain cut me from her view. I only needed to see her, to assure myself she is still whole.
Tomorrow, she’s mine.
The Feds drivetheir usual dance—lane changes, double-backs, and loops through crowded streets. They think they’re clever, but they’re not. They use the same tactics all the time, but even if they didn’t, my man on the inside told me where they were taking her.
Me and my men set up a roadblock on the street that winds alongside the river, our vehicles stretched across the narrow lanes. There’s no cameras, hardly any traffic, and no side roads to try and escape. We wait, impatiently, for the Feds to get here. Feet shuffle, the sound of shoes scuffing against snow and ice loud in this deserted area.
“Remember,” I call out. “Don’t shoot the Feds. Just keep them occupied while I get the girl.” Dead Feds will bring me trouble I don’t need.
The Feds’ headlights appear in the distance, slicing across the white haze rising off the river. I lift a hand and my men move as one, stepping onto the road and spreading out. Two black SUVs grind to a halt, their tires spitting slush.
They don’t get out of their cars, at least not yet, not while we block the road, our guns drawn. And not while they’re severely outnumbered. Even though I’m standing in front, I’ve angled myself so that my face can’t be seen clearly. No need to advertise the Mikhailov boss is here. The hoodie I’m wearing also helps to obscure my identity from the law. All my men are similarly disguised.
We move forward as one, a long line of skilled Russian Bratva walking side-by-side, armed to the teeth and ready for battle. I know the sight strikes terror in their souls, and if I weren’t so worried about Ivy, I’d relish their fear.
We surround the cars, our weapons aimed at the windows and the agents inside. Ivy is in the second vehicle, and that’s where I go. Snow crunches under my boots as I circle the SUV. I yank open the back door, keeping my gun trained on the agents inside.
Ivy’s eyes widen when she sees me, but she doesn’t scream as I half expected her to. “No one move, and no one gets hurt,” I growl, keeping my voice low and deep.
“Except for you,” I say, turning my gaze onto Ivy. “You, come with me.”
She hesitates, her hands trembling just slightly in her lap. Not fear—something else. Uncertainty, maybe. She’s taking too long, though. We need to get the hell out of here.
Reaching in with my free hand while keeping my gun trained on the agents, I pull her out of the car. Ivy shrieks in surprise, once, but that’s it. My men stand guard as I rush Ivy to the car, then they back up slowly, guns still aimed at the agents in their vehicles.
We getto my estate about an hour later. To make sure the law didn’t follow us, Maksim punctured their tires, and we took separate ways home, using our own evasive tactics.
Inside, the house glows with Christmas. Staff have been busy these last few hours setting up all the decorations. Chandeliers spill amber light across polished floors. Garlands of pine and fir wind up the staircases, laced with red ribbons and tiny glass ornaments. Silver bells hang from doorframes. Icons flicker in alcoves, candles burning steadily before them. The air carries the scent of beeswax, pine, and spiced wine. The choir’s voices drift through hidden speakers, hymns of Orthodox Christmas—solemn, timeless, filling the halls with the weight of faith.
I watch Ivy’s face as she takes it in. Confusion ripples across her fear. What did she expect, a dungeon?
We climb the stairs, her boots echoing against the marble. Her shoulders are stiff, her chin high. We stop before an oak door, and I pull a key out of my pocket to open it.
“This will be your room.”
She whirls on me, her eyes blazing. “My room? You think I’m just going to stay here like a prisoner?”
Her voice shakes, but the fire beneath it burns strong.
“You will stay here,” I answer evenly. “The windows are barred. A guard will stand at your door. Youwillbe safe.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “Safe? That’s what they told me at the safehouses. Until the bullets started flying.”
I gesture toward the fire already burning in the hearth. “Rest. You will see this is different once you’ve had time to accept your circumstances.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicious. She steps inside without another word. The lock turns softly behind her.
After staring at the closed door for a few minutes, my thoughts warring between giving her some time alone and going in to make her see reason, I finally turn away and go downstairs. Christmas music filters softly through the house as I walk the halls. Outside, snow piles high against the walls.
