Page 87 of Blood Oath Christmas
I make love to my wife with a tenderness I didn't know I possessed, mindful of the precious cargo she carries. Every movement is careful, controlled, designed to bring her pleasure without causing harm. She responds to my touch like she was made for me, her body singing under my hands.
Her skin is luminous in the soft lamplight, flushed with desire and the glow of early pregnancy. I trace the subtle changes in her body with reverent fingers—the slight fullness of her breasts, the still flatness of her belly where our child grows. Each touch is a promise, a vow of protection and devotion.
"Konstantin," she whispers my name like a prayer, her blue eyes dark with want. Her hands find the dragon tattoo, her fingers following the familiar lines as if memorizing them anew. The contrast between her pale skin and my ink-marked flesh has always fascinated me, but now it seems symbolic of something deeper—the way she's brought light into the darkness of my world.
I kiss her slowly, deeply, pouring all my unspoken emotions into the connection between us. My hands frame her face, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as I drink in every softsound she makes. When I trail kisses down her throat, she arches beneath me, her body instinctively seeking more contact.
"Are you comfortable?" I murmur against her collarbone, my voice rougher than intended. The need to protect her wars with my desire, creating an intensity I've never experienced before. She nods, her hands threading through my dark hair, pulling me closer.
I worship her body with patient devotion, taking my time to explore every sensitive spot that makes her gasp and tremble. The way her breath catches when I kiss the hollow of her throat, how her fingers tighten in my hair when I lavish attention on the sensitive peaks of her breasts, her responses guide me. Everything about this moment feels sacred, precious in a way that has nothing to do with the dangerous world outside our bedroom door.
When I finally join with her, it's with infinite care, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. But there's only pleasure there, only love and trust that humbles me completely. We move together in perfect synchronization, a dance as old as time but somehow entirely new between us.
Her legs wrap around my waist, drawing me deeper, and I have to fight for control. The way she feels around me, the soft sounds of pleasure she makes, the way she whispers my name—it all threatens to undo the careful restraint I've built. But this isn't about my needs; it's about showing her how completely she owns me, body and soul.
"I love you," I tell her, the words torn from somewhere deep in my chest. She smiles up at me, radiant and beautiful, her hands cupping my face.
"I love you too," she breathes, and then she's pulling me down for another kiss, her body moving beneath mine in ways that make coherent thought impossible.
We find our rhythm together, slow and deep, each movement deliberate and meaningful. I can feel her climbing toward release, her body tightening around mine, her breathing becoming more erratic. I adjust my angle, finding that spot that makes her cry out, and focus all my attention on bringing her to the edge.
When she finally breaks apart beneath me, her back arching as waves of pleasure wash over her, I follow her over, my own release triggered by the sight of her complete abandon. For a moment, the world narrows to just this—the two of us, connected in the most fundamental way, creating something beautiful in the midst of all the chaos that surrounds us.
Afterward, I gather her against my chest, my hand splaying protectively over her still-flat stomach. She fits perfectly in my arms, her head tucked beneath my chin, her breathing gradually returning to normal. The weight of responsibility settles over me again. Not just for her, but for the life we've created together.
"Thank you," she whispers against my chest, and I don't need to ask what for. I understand. In a world where violence and danger are constant companions, we've managed to create something pure and perfect between us. Something worth protecting at any cost.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. "Sleep,moya lyubov," I murmur. "I'll keep you and our little one safe."
And as she drifts off in my arms, I make a silent vow to the child growing inside her that I will be the father they need, the protector they deserve. Whatever it takes, whatever sacrifices I have to make, I will keep them both safe. This tender moment, this perfect peace. It's what I'll fight for, what I'll kill for if necessary.
Because this woman, this child, this family we're building, they're everything to me now. And I'll burn the world down before I let anyone take them away.
Somehow, I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, there’s a knock on the door, growing more persistent as I blink my eyes open. Ivy stirs beside me and I take a second to admire her youth, her beauty, and the peace settled on her face in sleep.
“What is it?” I growl toward the door.
Viktor tentatively opens the door, then steps inside. His eyes briefly go to Ivy before landing on me.
“The FBI,” he says. “They’re here to talk to you.” He pauses and jerks his gaze to my side. “And Ivy.”
49
IVY
My heart hammers against my ribs as I sit up in bed, instantly alert despite the fog of sleep. The way Viktor said "FBI" makes my blood run cold, and I can feel Konstantin's entire body tense beside me.
"How many?" Konstantin's voice is deadly calm as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, already reaching for his clothes.
"Two. Agent Cole and another one I don't recognize," Viktor replies, his eyes carefully avoiding looking at me as I pull the sheet up to cover myself. "They're waiting in the main room."
Konstantin's jaw tics as he pulls on his pants, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. "Tell them we'll be down in five minutes."
Viktor nods and closes the door behind him, leaving us alone in the sudden tension that fills the room like smoke.
"Ivy." Konstantin's voice is softer now, but there's an edge to it that makes me look up at him. He's standing by the dresser, his shirt in his hands, and those green eyes are studying me with an intensity that makes my skin flush despite everything. "Whatever they ask you, remember, you're my wife now. You're family."
The way he says it, like a promise and a warning all at once, sends heat spiraling through my chest. Even in this moment, with the FBI downstairs waiting to interrogate us, he can still make my pulse race with just a look.
