Page 1 of Jewel of the Assassin
1
“Nothing says marital bliss like a bargaining chip with boobs.”
VALENTINA
“Oh, yeah, Daddy, do itharder!” I mouth off in a high-pitched voice as the cane strikes my back like fire licking at my skin. Not bare skin.
Because the “Princess” of the Alaskan Peninsula can’t possibly have any scars.
Or apparently…a bachelorette party right before she’s married off to a platinum prick of a Russian oligarch.
“Zatknis’!”
I don’t know many words in my father’s native tongue—my rebellious “fuck off” trait—but I know Russian for “shut up”.
The chill of the wine cellar drifts across my face. No cameras here. Soundproof cellar. A perfect place for punishments. Daddy should really consider selling the idea.
The cane hits me with more force. There might be a blanket over me, but it still hurts like a bitch. Clenching my teeth, I screech, take a few ragged breaths, and spit out, “You know corporal punishment is illegal, right?”
It doesn’t matter how many times he’s done this. I still struggle, kicking and writhing and straining with the ropes binding me to the support beam. My tongue does more. Sure, he canes me harder for it, but pissing him off is like a cherry on an arsenic sundae.
Strike. Strike. Strike. Three rapid-fire blows back to back.
“You know…” I suck in deep breaths as sweat grows on my skin. “Studies prove that beating your kids stunts their emotional growth.” I glare before smiling like an animated villain. “It must mean I’m a psycho now, right?”
“You think this is a game?’ he demands in his thick brogue, pausing to catch his breath and rub a hand down his face. Too bad he’s not portly and short. No, my father is tall, bulky, and intimidating with sculpted and commanding Russian features, a strong jaw, and a well-defined brow. “Sneaking out, taunting that blogger—do you have any idea what you’ve risked?”
“He instigated it,” I spit out, my back still burning. I toss my gold curls over my shoulder. “I warned him to get that camera out of my face or I’d bust his balls and break his nose.” Which I did.
“The Makarovas expect a wife, not a scandal,” he growls. “You are not just my daughter, Valentina. You are a contract. And I won’t let you ruin it.”
“Oh, how romantic. Nothing says marital bliss like a bargaining chip with boobs.”
He yells, and I flinch, bracing myself as the cane comes down harder than ever. I hiss. “Tell me, does Anton even know what color my eyes are, or is that irrelevant to the contract?”
My father rains blows down across my back, my shoulders, my ass, and my thighs. Considering I’m about to be married in three days, you’d think he’d want to preserve my skin from redness. Whatever. It will probably clear up by then, especially when a nurse tends to me.
Once he’s huffed and puffed enough, my father, the notorious Victor Volkov of the mafia in this Alaska region, chucks the cane to the cement floor,then unties me.
The blanket slips from my shoulders, and I shiver at the chill thanks to the form-fitting mini dress. The gold fabric reflects off the bottles, glimmering in the dim light.
I’m nearly buckling, but I reinforce my knees with all my willpower, lift my chin, and burn my eyes against his. Not intimidating. My eyes are soft and sultry with a violet-blue worthy of witchlight.
Gripping my chin, my father bares his teeth and rumbles, “Too stubborn. Too spirited. Just like your mother. If you do not learn more respect, you will meet the same fate as she.”
The words sting when I consider the mother I barely ever met—otherwise known as hisAmericanmistress. Despite the half-soiled bloodline, I am his only daughter. And with my feminineassets—let’s just say I’m a knockout—other powerful mafia families have lined up to ogle and drool. I’m not just used to it, I’veusedit…to every advantage.
Wrinkling my nose, I jerk my chin away. “Speaking of dear old mum, why don’t we have a glass of port in her honor?” I gesture to the selections around us.
He gnashes his teeth, and I don’t hide my grin. Because my equally stubborn mother put just enough sleeping drugs in his port so she could escape his violence…with me in her arms. My heart clenches because it was the last night I ever felt her arms.
The shot thundered inside my entire being before my father ripped me from her bleeding corpse, left her in the snow, and brought me home, where only my brother comforted me. All I had to remember her by was the clump of blonde curls I tore when he wrestled me from her body.
Sasha isnothinglike our father.
Only a year older, he still comforts me, meeting me on the staircase. He’s wincing, his eyes pained. We share the same punishment. And judging from his tight jaw and heavy shoulders, Sasha received a double share—because he helped me sneak out.
He never blames me. And the pain brings us closer together.
