Page 124 of Jewel of the Assassin
I clutch my throat, holding back a whimper while curling into the fetal position. Tuck my chin into my chest. But I feel his shadow over me. And see his fist out of the corner of my eye beyond my hair.
“You will bear my heirs, Valentina. If you refuse or try to harm yourself in any way, if you try to kill yourself, know this, mywife: I won’t hesitate to rain hell down on this whole damn island. After I’ve tortured all the worthless staff here to death, their ghosts will follow you into the afterlife…and never stop haunting you with their screams.”
The next thing I hear is the slamming door.
I burrow into myself more.
Because if we don’t find a way through this hell, everything he wants will come true. I’ll watch my husband die. I’ll suffer endless nights of torment. And I’ll carry Anton’s children. To keep them all alive, I’ll become the perfect submissive wife he wants. But inside? I’ll be dead. Nothing but a shell of the woman I am now.
Because where he goes, I will go.
My head. His soul. For eternity.
Until that point, until Roman’s heart stops beating, and my soul follows him to death and beyond, I won’t stop burning, won’t stop fighting, won’tstop loving him.
I can never let the flame go out. Because diamonds don’t break.
They shine.
I stand before the tall,gilded mirror, my hands trembling at my sides as Zina kneels at my hem, fussing with the last bits of lace and tulle. I try to square my shoulders, to be strong for her—she’s already wept three times today—but the woman staring back at me doesn’t feel like me at all.
The gown isn’t truly a gown. It’s barely there—an illusion of fabric, sheer as spider silk, stitched with curling white vines and blossoms that climb across my skin like a cage pretending to be flowers. Decorative, yes. Ornate, yes. But modest? Never. So transparent, so exposed.
Of course, he chose this.
My hair has been swept into an elaborate up-do with little braids coiling around each other. A few tresses on my cheeks.
A sudden squawk cuts through the silence. Shalun has perched on the window ledge, his head cocked, one obsidian eye pinned to me. I can’t help but wonder—has he come to foretell my doom?
Zina rises, her fingers lingering at my wrist, tears bright in her eyes as she fans out the gauzy train. “So beautiful,” she murmurs, though her voice splinters at the edges. Forcing it.
I am beautiful. Devastatingly so.
From the corner, Fleur steps forward, bouquet in hand. Today, they are they, black hair in their usual two braids, their eyes encouraging as they extend the flowers toward me. The arrangement is strange—not the roses or lilies I expect, but pale-blue irises threaded with white anemones and sprigs of green fern. My brows draw together.
“These are…” My voice trails off. I don’t know the language of flowers like they do. Fleur has been teaching me, but I only know that blue often symbolizes peace. Or hope. Blue irises. And white anemones. White is purity or protection, I believe. Or both. I could never guess the fern. All I know is that Fleur has chosen somethingunusual.And I don’t understand why.
When their eyes meet mine, locking on, I swear I notice a telltale upturn of the corners of their mouth. A smile. Like they have a secret. And the bouquet is giving me a hint.
Before I can ask, boots strike against the marble outside. Harsh, heavy. A pounding fist rattles the chamber door.
Zina flinches. Fleur releases the bouquet into my trembling fingers.
The door swings open.
“Time,” one of the guards says flatly.
I take a breath. Then another. I press my lips together, lift my chin. And as they escort me to the chapel, the scent of the bouquet clings to me—like hope. Fragile, but it feels like hope.
40
“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
ROMAN
The guards will be here soon.
My body has been beaten down, broken in so many ways, I hardly know if I’ll ever put myself back together again. Only my wife could ever manage such a feat. My anus still burns from last night’s violation. Not even the cold of the dungeon offers any reprieve.
