Page 51 of Blood Oath Christmas
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her processing everything—the reality of what she's married into, the life that stretches out before her, the man she's bound to forever.
"You really mean it," she whispers. "There's no way out."
"There's no way out," I confirm. "But there's also no way I'll let anyone hurt you. Ever."
Something shifts in her expression then, a resignation mixed with something else I can't quite identify. She nods slowly, as if accepting her fate.
"Then I guess I'd better learn to live with bodyguards," she says quietly.
"You'll learn to live with a lot of things," I tell her. "But you'll be alive to learn them. And I’ll do everything in my power to try and make you happy—as long as it doesn’t risk your life."
She turns to leave but pauses at the doorway. "Konstantin?"
"Yes?"
"That man whose hand you had cut off—will he live?"
The question surprises me. Most people in her position would be too afraid to ask, too horrified to want details.
"He'll live. He'll just have a permanent reminder of what happens when you cross the Mikhailov family."
She nods once, then disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with the weight of what I've done—not just to Dmitri Kozlov, but to her. I've bound her to me, to this life, to this world of violence and danger. And despite the guilt that gnaws at me, I know I'd do it again.
Because the alternative—losing her—is unthinkable.
I return to my desk, but the papers blur before my eyes. All I can think about is Ivy and the way she looked at me just now. Like she was seeing me clearly for the first time. Like she was finally understanding what it means to be married to a man like me.
The rest of her life.The words echo in my mind, carrying a weight I hadn't fully considered before. I've given her security, yes. Protection. But I've also given her a cage, even if it's gilded with luxury and lined with good intentions.
The question is, will she learn to love the cage, or will she spend the rest of her life trying to escape it?
Only time will tell.
27
IVY
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes eleven times, each resonant note echoing through the vast emptiness of Konstantin's estate. I count each one, desperate for something—anything—to occupy my restless mind. The sound fades, leaving me alone with the oppressive silence that has become my constant companion.
I'm going stir-crazy.
Back home, my days were packed from dawn to dusk. Work at Otrava, classes online, studying, the occasional adventure with Frank. Even my quiet evenings were filled with purpose—grading practice worksheets for my teaching program, organizing lesson plans, working on jigsaw puzzles while half-watching Netflix. Now? Now I wander these marble halls like a ghost, my footsteps muffled by Persian rugs that probably cost more than my annual salary.
The Christmas decorations that seemed so magical just days ago now feel like beautiful prison bars. Garland drapes every banister, twinkling lights cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the massive tree in the great room stands sentinel with itsperfectly arranged ornaments. It's all stunning, but it's not mine. None of this is mine.
I pause at the window overlooking the snow-covered grounds, watching my breath fog the glass. Even the winter wonderland outside feels like a taunt—all that space, all that freedom, just beyond my reach. My ever-present shadow, Roland today, shifts behind me. I don't need to turn around to know he's there, watching, waiting, probably as bored as I am but too professional to show it.
"I'm going to explore," I announce, turning from the window.
Roland nods, his expression neutral. "Of course, Mrs. Mikhailov."
The title still sends a jolt through me. Mrs. Mikhailov. Konstantin's wife. The words feel foreign on my tongue, like speaking a language I'm still learning. Three days married, and I still expect someone to jump out and tell me it's all been an elaborate joke.
I drift through the house aimlessly, Roland's footsteps a steady rhythm behind me. The library with its floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books in multiple languages. The formal dining room where we've shared exactly one meal, the silence between us heavy with unspoken questions. The music room with its grand piano that I'm afraid to touch, afraid I'll somehow break something priceless.
Everything here speaks of old money, of traditions passed down through generations, of a world I know nothing about. The weight of it all presses down on me, making me feel small and out of place.
My feet carry me down the east wing, past portraits of stern-faced men and elegant women who seem to judge me as I pass. Their eyes follow me, these ancestors of Konstantin's, and I wonder what they think of the American girl who stumbled into their bloodline through circumstance rather than choice.
