Page 125 of Jewel of the Assassin
It split me open, wrenched my heart from my chest—Valentina witnessing the sodomy. I have been tortured before. Never like that.
The memory rots my stomach lining, twisting my intestines. Veins throb in my forearms as I clench my hands into fists, willing down the high legions of the heavens, the almighty seraphim, to come down upon them all. I’d save the final trump for Anton and my father.
Anton will twist the blade, dig the knife in, by having me in the front row. The prime witness to his sham of a wedding ceremony.
Oh, Valya,I grieve for how I have failed her.
And my brother won’t offer me any dignity. It’s why I’ve been stripped of everything. I’ll watch—naked—from the front row of the chapel. Degradation. Desecration.
At least I’ll get to see her…if only for a little while.
The dungeon door groans open. I don’t come off the wall. My hands rest on my thighs, legs together to cover my privates.
“Anton is ready for you,” a guard barks, but it comes out more like a slur.
With a deep sigh from my nostrils, I look up. The moment I do, I lower my brows, confused as both guards’ eyes whirl to the backs of their heads. A second later? They drop out cold.
Now, I come off the wall, all my muscles bulging with tension as thin hope bolsters my chest.
What the bloody hell?
The next thing I know, an all-too familiar floral peasant dress skims around the corner of the dungeon door. And there they are, lips silent, eyes sparkling, and mouth smiling with an undying, cheerful amity not one being in the universe deserves.
“Fleur?”
Another familiar figure pops his head in first around the corner of the doorway, carrying a bundle of clothes. “And me!”
“Ty smysl moey zhizni”, I say in disbelief.You are the meaning f my life.“My favorite chaos makers. Is the universe sending me a gift?”
Levka waves a hand with mock modesty. “Fleur is always a gift.” He leans down and kisses their cheek, and Fleur’s cheeks burn. “Thebestgift of all. Their brilliant plan, Roman.”
Fleur steps forward, producing the guard keys with a triumphant flourish. They open the cell door while Levka tosses me the clothes. I waste no time, ignoring the fiery agony in my back and ass. Adrenaline roars through me as Levka loops an arm around Fleur’s shoulders.
“And the guards?” I ask.
Levka smirks with pride. “Fleur’s little herb…slipped into their coffee. Makes them drowsy, pass out for a while. Not permanent, but enough to buy us time.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “And that’s just the beginning. Zina, Mikhail, and I…we colluded. Mikhail will raise a toast at the wedding ceremony—‘to the happy couple.’ Everyone will lift their glasses to drink…” He pauses, eyes gleaming. “And yours truly, the King of Spirits, may have put a little something extra in the vodka. Not enough to kill them, of course, but enough to make them feel…pleasantly unsteady.”
I can’t help it. I cup Fleur’s face and plant a sloppy, fraternal kiss on their lips, grinning. “Molodets,” I murmur.Well done.Then I do the same to Levka, pressing a cheeky kiss to his temple. “I’m proud of you both. Vy luchshie.”You’re the best.
Levka claps me on the shoulder. “Hurry, we don’t have much time. The ceremony has already begun!”
We need to make one brief stop. I’ll be damned if I go in there half-cocked. After I strip the armory as clean as I can, I’ll revel in giving my wife the apple of her eye: the Soviet-madeMakarovPM. I’ll thrill as she cocks it, unleashing the wrath of hell in a house of God—where even he won’t dare show his face today.
I strapthe Soviet-made Makarov PM to my side, the cold metal biting against my ribs.
Fleur and Levka flit ahead, whispering, carrying a small tote bag whose contents I haven’t asked about. Cylindrical shapes peek from the top. Jars maybe. But curiosity doesn’t seize me. Not yet. Not now. The chapel lies ahead. My heartbeat drums with anticipation and bloodthirst.
We round the corner into the outer hall. Two guards stand sentry, their posture casual, unaware. I slide forward, dagger primed, muscles coiled, movements smooth and precise. In a heartbeat, I strike—throat slit, quick, clean, silent. They crumple without a sound.
I pause, ravenous in my savagery. I sweep my gaze over the chapel, already envisioning the ways it will run red.
And then—Mikhail’s voice cuts through the hush. A toast. My gaze sharpens. The timing is impeccable. Perfectly orchestrated. No, not just perfect…cinematic.
Glasses rise. Words flow over them. And then, Mikhail utters the critical, monumental line that pierces the ceremony like a blade:
“If anyone objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
The chapel hushes. Candles flicker. Every eye is on the couple.
