Page 120 of Jewel of the Assassin
Valentina lurches, her hands flying to her mouth, terror in her eyes.
Roksana Makarova. My mother. She walks slowly into the ring, her black coat billowing like a specter’s robe. The same woman who taught me how to breathe steady before a kill, how to disappear into shadow, how to slit a throat without spilling a drop on my shoes.
I snarl at Anton. “You fucking coward! I’ll gut you with my bare hands! Strangle you with your own innards. You hear me? I’ll feed you your own heart while you’re still alive!”
Valentina’s whole body is tight, spine locked with her own fury.
Anton raises a hand. “Tell me, Mama dear… Any regrets?” he asks cruelly. “Regrets that you chose your oldest son over me? That you refused to train me while you polished his blade? Regrets that you?—”
“No, Anton.”
Her voice cuts through the frost like steel. She glances at me, regarding me with pride before turning her whole body toward him.
“I have not one damn regret,” she says sharply. “Because I saw the darkness in you before your little balls even dropped.” His spine locks up, and he bares his teeth, but my invincible mother goes on. “A fucking monster, always attacking your brother—the same brother who defended you time and again from bullies. You chose to become an unrepentant, irredeemable, despicable asshole just like your father. And I have always seen you for what you are.”
She spits. “Truslivaya svinya, ne dostoinaya lizat zemlyu, po kotoroy proshyol tvoy brat.”A cowardly pig, unworthy to lick the ground that your brother walked on.
The front rows gasp. A few laugh nervously; others go still, leaning forward.
Anton’s jaw ticks, rage flashing in his eyes until he grins, slow and savage. “Careful, Mamma. Your tongue’s writing checks your body can’t cash.” He braces his knuckles on the arm of his throne. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure Roman collects for me.”
The crowd roars its approval, stomping, jeering. Her enemies are also here.
Valentina loses it. Fuck, I can’t fault her for the attack. My brother doesn’t see the blow until her fist has struck his cheek as she screams. The crowd gasps as he stumbles, faltering, rubbinghis jaw in shock while she burns those flaming amethyst eyes against his. Her potty mouth unleashes a string of curses and insults in broken Russian.
He slowly turns to her, nothing but malice and punishment in his eyes. I also don’t fault her for trying to run. She doesn’t get far with his guards blocking her path. My mother steps closer to me, a gesture of strength. I take it. Every mark on my back roars when Anton slaps her face—hard enough for her head to snap back.
“Seems my bride needs to be taught a little lesson,” he croons to the crowd with eager lust gleaming in their eyes. He laughs as he seizes her throat, kicks her legs out from under her, and drives her to his knees. He takes himself out, fisting his damn length. “Not only will she suck my cock so I may wash her filthy mouth out, she will do the same for myfather.”
I see red. Her hands ball into fists. She spits at him. And my father grins, bobbing his brows. I lunge. Several guards set upon me, holding me back.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, brother,” Anton mocks, grips her hair, and shoves his inferior prick right down her throat. “Don’t be foolish. You take one more step, and she’ll be taking the cocks of all my guards. Stand there and be a good boy until the show commences.”
He fucks her hard, using her mouth like a cunt. Her nails dig into his thighs as she tries to hold him back, to give herself a slit of air. He doesn’t care. This is punishment for both of us until he shoots his load all over her face, neck, and chest, soaking the thin dress.
Nikolai remains where he is. Because Anton drags her to that chair. The crowd looks on, salivating. The moment Anton forces her head down to take my father’s cock, I fantasize about castrating Nikolai, then throwing him into a shallow grave, letting him bleed out while I bury him alive.
At least Nikolai is quick. Anton has her on his lap on my fucking throne a minute later, commencing the show.
My mother faces me, staring me down. Despite her years, I know not a goddamn day has gone by without her using her skills. Pride swells hot in my chest—God, she’s still my mother, still a warrior—but it curdles into horror just as fast. Anton won’t settle for a few punches. Not this time. He’ll wring every drop of pain from this until one of us can’t stand.
And he’s going to make me choose how far I’ll go.
My mother squares her shoulders,her blonde hair bound back in a severe knot. She’s dressed for battle—a close-fitted jacket of reinforced leather, high boots strapped to her calves, and fingerless gloves.
I’m only in my coat, heavy wool over bare skin, no weapon but the brute force of my body. That’s always been enough. Until now.
“Don’t hold back,” she says, eyes like flint. “If you do, I’ll break you.”
We circle. Her stance is sharp, honed, the same stance she drilled into me as a boy. And when she strikes—God, she still moves like lightning. Her fist cracks against my jaw, a clean, professional hit that rattles my teeth. I stagger, taste blood, and she’s already spinning low, driving her boot into my ribs—pain flares.
The crowd cheers, phones lighting up, more bets placed.
I come at her hard, a rush of weight and fury. She dodges the first blow, countering with her elbow into my cheekbone. The world flashes white. I grunt, absorb it, drive forward again. My hands close on her arms, and she twists free, nimble, brutal. Another jab to my gut steals my breath.
We trade minor blows, continually circling one another, equal predators. Her finesse against my brute strength. My cunning against her expertise.
But the crowd is getting restless.
