Page 126 of Jewel of the Assassin
I slam the doors open. They thunder on their hinges, reverberating through the vaulted hall like my final trump.
All heads turn, jaws dropping, a host of gasps echoing in the chapel. The tension snaps like a live wire.
And I roar in a voice raw and unstoppable:
“I OBJECT!”
41
“Light ’em up, Moya Samotsvet.”
VALENTINA
My hands are still shaking when the cliché Wedding March drones from the crackling sound system.
The chapel is packed to the brim, suffocating with perfume, incense, and too many eyes.
I refuse to look up at Anton waiting at the altar. I refuse to acknowledge him as my husband. This wedding is a twisted charade, a sickening sham, and I am the sacrificial lamb.
Mikhail stands at the front, holding a Bible. He still has black and blue bruises on his jaw and temple from the arena. But his posture is unbroken—proof that Roman did not destroy him. Unlike Roksana. My heart sinks at the thought of the strongest woman I’ve ever met and how heart-crushing it must have been for Roman when he felt his mother’s life slipping away…by his hand.
The music grinds on, and with each step, my stomach knots tighter. I’m going as slow as possible, feeling the weight of countlesseyes upon me. I wouldn’t be surprised if Anton plans to fuck me right here in the church following the ceremony.
Even my father sits in the front row, Sasha beside him. But while Sasha’s eyes are commiserating, my father’s are triumphant, arrogant, satisfied.
I arrive at the apex of the dais before the altar, and my heart struggles to beat. Anton takes my hand, but I still don’t look at him. Mikhail’s voice rises, carrying through the chapel. “Let us raise a toast to the happy couple.”
A servant passes crystal flutes down the pews. Vodka. The audience obeys, lifting their glasses. My throat is dry, my body trembling, but I accept the glass. For the first time, I meet Anton’s eyes as we coil our arms around one another, uniting in the drink. Nothing but brutal, black hunger there.
Glasses chime, and the crowd swallows. I barely sip.
And then Mikhail speaks those fateful words:“If anyone objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Silence swells…leaving me breathless.
Then—
The chapel doors explode inward with a boom that shakes the walls and rattles the rafters. Every head snaps toward the shuddering entrance.
My soul erupts with a blazing inferno. New life pumps into my heart.
Roman stands there, the chandelier light catching him like a vengeful god rising from the underworld. His long blond hair hangs loose, damp with sweat, streaked with dirt and crusted blood from the dungeon. His chest is like armor beneath his black shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the fabric stretched over scars and muscle. A dark trench coat hangs from his shoulders, swarming with steel, guns strapped to both sides of his belt, knives gleaming at his thighs. Levka and Fleur flank him, each armed to the teeth, Fleur clutching that little tote bag like it carries damnation itself.
Somehow, I know they are responsible for this.
And my husband roars, his voice ripping through the vaulted ceiling:
“I OBJECT!”
The chapel thunders with it. Candles gutter. The guests recoil—half-standing, stumbling, slumping in the pews. Their faces blanch. I lower my brows, confused, until Levka winks at me. Oh, King of Spirits! The vodka. Something must have been in the vodka. All I know is their movements are sluggish, limbs heavy, eyes wide with terror as they realize they cannot rise.
Not my vodka. Not Mikhail’s. And not Anton’s.
Mikhail grins, wide and sharp, bruised face alight as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. Roman’s staff, in the very back pews, breaks into cheers. They are the only ones not swaying, not drugged, their faith burning brighter than the candles.
The moment I try to lunge, Anton jerks, seizing my arm. Cold steel presses against my throat—a knife. His lips snarl against my ear. “I’ll do it! If I can’t have you, I’ll make sure my brother never will!”
Roman locks his eyes on us. But he is calm. So beautifully and violently calm. And I can’t describe my emotions. I can’t breathe. Hope does not surge through me—no, this is more than hope.
