Chapter 39 Ivy
IVY
The crisp January air fills my lungs as I match Konstantin's steady pace along the wooded trail behind his estate.
I can't believe how much I've missed this—the rhythmic pounding of my feet against the packed earth, the burn in my muscles, the way my mind clears with each stride.
For weeks, I've been cooped up inside, and I hadn't realized how much the confinement was affecting me until now.
"You're smiling," Konstantin observes, his voice barely winded despite our brisk pace. Even while jogging, he manages to look effortlessly powerful, his long legs eating up the ground with predatory grace.
"I forgot how good this feels," I admit, stealing a glance at his profile. The morning sun catches the sharp angles of his face, and I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach. "Thank you for letting me do this."
His green eyes find mine, and the intensity there makes me stumble slightly. "You don't need to thank me for taking care of you, moya zhena."
The possessive way he says “my wife” sends heat coursing through me, and I have to focus on my breathing for reasons that have nothing to do with the exercise.
Even after everything we've been through, the way he looks at me, like I'm something precious he'd kill to protect, makes my heart race faster than any run ever could.
But then Konstantin's entire body goes rigid, and he snarls a vicious curse in Russian that I've never heard before.
The world tilts as his massive frame slams into me, driving me to the ground with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. His body covers mine completely, one hand cradling my head to protect it from the impact, the other braced against the ground.
"Stay down," he growls against my ear, his voice deadly calm despite the chaos erupting around us.
Another crack splits the air, and this time I know exactly what it is. My blood turns to ice as I hear the whistle of something passing overhead.
Konstantin rises from me in one fluid motion, staying low as he reaches behind his back.
The gun appears in his hand like magic, and I'm struck by how natural it looks there, like an extension of his body.
This is the man I married. Not just my protective husband, but a Pakhan, a leader who's survived in a world where violence is currency.
More shots ring out, and Konstantin returns fire with deadly precision.
The sound is deafening, and I press my face to the cold ground, my hands instinctively moving to cover my stomach.
The gesture is automatic, protective, and it sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the January air.
Shouts echo through the trees. Konstantin's men, I realize, as Viktor's voice booms orders in rapid Russian. The gunfire intensifies, a terrifying symphony of violence that makes my ears ring and my stomach churn.
Then, as suddenly as it began, silence falls.
I hear footsteps, voices calling out in Russian, but I don't dare lift my head until Konstantin's hand touches my shoulder.
"It's over, solnyshko," he says softly. "You can get up now."
I push myself to my knees, my hands shaking as I brush dirt and leaves from my clothes. "Are you—” The words die in my throat as I see the dark stain spreading across his gray T-shirt.
"Oh, God, Konstantin!" I scramble to my feet, reaching for him. "You're bleeding!"
He glances down at his shoulder with the same casual interest he might show a paper cut. "It's nothing. The bullet went through."
"Nothing?" My voice cracks with hysteria. "You've been shot!"
The sight of his blood—so much blood—makes the world spin around me. This man, this impossibly strong, invincible man who makes me feel safe just by existing, is hurt. Because of me. Because he threw himself between me and danger without a second thought.
The realization hits me like a physical blow.
I love him. Not just the attraction, not just the way he makes me feel protected and desired.
I love him with a fierce, desperate intensity that terrifies me.
The thought of losing him, of watching that light fade from his green eyes, makes me want to curl up and die.
"Moya zhena," he says gently, reaching for me with his uninjured arm. "I'm fine. Look at me."
I force myself to meet his gaze, and the tenderness there nearly undoes me. Even bleeding, even after being shot protecting me, he's more concerned about my emotional state than his own physical pain.
"We need to get you back to the house," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need to clean that wound."
Viktor appears at our side, his face grim. "All clear. Three shooters, all down."
Konstantin nods, then looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "It wasn't Vadim's men."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "What do you mean?"
"The Kozlov family," Viktor answers when Konstantin remains silent. "Dmitri's cousins, seeking revenge."
I remember that name. Dmitri Kozlov, the man who stole from them. The man whose hand Konstantin ordered cut off. The violence of that punishment had shocked me then, but now, seeing the blood seeping through my husband's shirt, I understand it differently.
Back at the house, I work with steady hands to clean Konstantin's wound, grateful that the bullet passed cleanly through the muscle of his shoulder. My stomach roils at the sight of torn flesh and blood, but I push through it, focusing on taking care of him.
"You're good at this," he observes, watching me work.
"I took first aid classes," I murmur, trying not to think about how I might need these skills again in the future.
When I'm finished bandaging him, Konstantin catches my hand, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. The simple touch sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I'm amazed that even now, even after everything, he can affect me so easily.
"Ivy," he says, his voice serious. "It's time."
"Time for what?"
His green eyes hold mine, and I see something shift in their depths—a hardening, a resolution that makes my breath catch.
"Time you learned more about the family," he says quietly. "About how we deal with threats."
The words hang between us like a promise and a warning, and I know that whatever comes next will change everything.