He lifted Ivan by the throat and tossed him on the ground, casually stepping on his brother’s throat with his custom-made leather shoe. “What was that you were saying?”
Yes, the fire within him hissed, reveling in the sudden burst of violence.
Within seconds, a few of Oleg’s druzhina gathered, prowling in a circle around their knyaz, their teeth bared as the gilded reception hall filled with heat and the scent of blood. Silver daggers flashed in their hands.
A human woman screamed. The string quartet playing in the corner ceased, grabbing up their instruments before they fled the room with the other mortals.
Pavel was frozen in shock, his eyes wide and his expression blank as he watched Oleg’s very untoward outburst.
It was exactly the kind of erratic outburst that Truvor would often indulge in anytime he felt like life around him was growing too calm.
Oleg saw Pavel’s reaction, but he could not let it bother him.
Tatyana blinked once, and Oleg could feel the shock ricocheting through their joined amnis, but she said nothing, freezing in place as Sándor and her Hazar gathered around her, clearly preparing for some kind of explosion.
Ivan grabbed at Oleg’s ankle, trying to pry his foot off his neck, but Oleg only snapped his fingers and brought a ball of flame to his palm, then pushed it toward Ivan, the blue fire hovering inches from Ivan’s face.
The ground beneath them moved, but Ivan grew still.
And the corner of Oleg’s mouth turned up.
Ivan had been right. For once.
Oleg had spent many years pursuing civilization, moving his businesses into legitimate circles. Not because he subscribed to human moral codes but because it was actually easier to rob people legally in the twenty-first century than illegally. Subterfuge was hardly even necessary when human authorities could be bought for so little.
But the last thing his people needed was for Oleg to be seen as predictable, and the aggressive flexing of his power scratched an itch that had been bothering him all night.
Lethal, yes. Predictable, no.
Mika walked over with a crystal goblet of blood-wine. “Did you try this one?” He handed it to Oleg as if there were not an earth vampire seething and twisting under Oleg’s foot. “It’s blood-wine from the Rhone Valley, and it’s surprisingly good.”
“Hmm.” Oleg took the goblet and emptied the contents down his throat, letting a few drops slide from the corners of his mouth so that when he lowered the drinking vessel, a thick red drop smeared his lip. “It’s not terrible.”
“Agreed.”
When Oleg made no attempt to move his foot off Ivan’s neck, Oleg heard the mutters of Pavel’s guests from across theroom. Visitors from Europe with curled lips and extended fangs. Derisive side-glances from the South Americans.
Amusement danced in Sándor’s eyes, though the rest of Tatyana’s Hazar looked mildly disgusted at the open humiliation of the governor of Moscow.
Jetta Ommunsdotter said the word Oleg had been waiting to hear.
“Barbarian.” She sneered, set down her drink, and walked toward the door.
Pavel broke out of his frozen stance. “Jetta, may I?—”
“No, Pavel.” She shot Oleg an icy glare. “I told you.”
Other vampires followed Jetta, but many of the guests were still frozen, waiting to see what would happen between Ivan and Oleg.
Ivan opened his mouth, but with Oleg’s foot on his throat, he had no air to speak.
Oleg lifted his foot. “What was that, Ivan?”
Ivan rubbed at his neck, and when he spoke, his voice was a croak. “I was complimenting your bride.”
“Ah!” Oleg cocked his head, looking at Ivan with all the detached calculation of a cat observing a mouse. “She is indeed fortunate to be marrying into such a close family. Nothing less than what the Kievan Rus deserves.”
Tatyana walked slowly toward him, her face a cool mask of disdain. She held a goblet of blood-wine in her hand. When she reached him, the druzhina parted, allowing her to approach.
