Page 78 of Blood Oath Christmas
Konstantin straightens his jacket, and despite the bandage beneath his shirt, he looks every inch the powerful Mafia boss. There's something magnetic about the way he carries himself, the quiet confidence that radiates from him even when he's injured. My body responds to it involuntarily, heat spreading through me even in this terrifying situation.
We walk through the main entrance like we own the place. The activity inside stops immediately. Men freeze with boxes in their hands, conversations die mid-sentence, and I can practically feel the tension ratchet up to dangerous levels.
"I want to speak to Dimitri," Konstantin announces, his voice carrying easily through the warehouse space.
A man emerges from an office in the back, a tall guy with graying hair and the kind of face that's seen too much violence. "Mikhailov. You have some balls showing up here."
"I have a proposition for you." Konstantin's voice is conversational, almost friendly, but I can hear the steel underneath. "Give me the men who shot at me yesterday, and we can handle this civilly."
The man laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You think you can just walk in here and make demands?"
"I'm giving you a choice," Konstantin replies calmly. "Surrender the shooters, or my men and I tear this place down with everyone in it."
The silence stretches taut as a wire. I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, can taste copper in my mouth from biting my tongue. This is really happening. This is the world I've married into.
"Go to hell, Mikhailov."
The gunfire erupts so suddenly, I don't have time to scream. Konstantin shoves me behind a concrete pillar as bullets fly, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. I press myself against the cold concrete, my hands over my ears, watching in horror as men fall.
It's over in minutes, but it feels like hours. When the shooting stops, the silence is almost worse than the noise. I can hear groaning, someone crying, the drip of something I don't want to identify.
Konstantin appears beside me, checking me for injuries with hands that shake slightly. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, unable to speak. He helps me to my feet, and that's when I see the aftermath. Bodies scattered across the warehouse floor, blood pooling on concrete, men who were alive and breathing just minutes ago now still and broken.
My stomach lurches violently. I barely make it to a corner before I'm retching, my body rejecting the horror of what I've witnessed. The violence, the casual way life was snuffed out, the reality of what Konstantin's world truly looks like—it's too much.
But even as I'm sick, even as my hands shake and my mind reels, I understand something else. These men shot at Konstantin. They tried to kill him. And in this world, in his world, there are consequences for that.
When I finally stop heaving, Konstantin is there with a handkerchief, his touch gentle as he wipes my face.
The drive home is silent. I sit with my head against the window, listening to nothing but the sound of tires on asphalt and my own ragged breathing.
Back at the house, I go straight to our bathroom and lock the door. I need a moment to process, to think, to figure out what this all means. But as I'm washing my hands, I remember something I'd forgotten about—the pregnancy test I bought days ago but never used.
My period is late. Has been for over a week now. With everything that's happened, I'd pushed it to the back of my mind, but now…
With trembling hands, I open the package and follow the instructions. Three minutes. I have to wait three minutes.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the little plastic stick, my mind completely blank. After everything that's happened today, after witnessing death and violence and the brutal reality of my new life, this feels surreal.
The timer on my phone goes off.
I look down at the test and my heart stops. Two pink lines.
Positive.
42
KONSTANTIN
The morning light filters through the windows of my office, but I can't concentrate on the reports spread across my desk. Two days have passed since we retaliated against the Kozlovs, since we showed no mercy to those who dared to cross us. The retribution was swift and absolute, as it had to be. But ever since that night, Ivy has been… different.
I push back from my desk and walk to the window overlooking the patio garden. There she is, sitting at the wrought iron table under the pergola, her laptop open and a notebook beside her. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she holds herself like she's bracing against something. The untouched sandwich on the plate beside her tells me everything I need to know about her appetite.
Had I moved too fast? Shown her too much of our world before she was ready?
I make my way downstairs and through the French doors that lead to the garden. The January air is crisp, but she doesn't seem to notice the cold. She's wearing one of my sweaters, and the sight of her in my clothes still does things to me that I'm notentirely prepared for. But her face is pale, almost translucent in the morning light.
