Page 135 of Jewel of the Assassin
My wife holds herself like a queen, but I can still read the shadow of hurt in her eyes. But it can’t match her feminine fury.
Before either of them can blink, I seize the back of Victor’s neck, yanking him back so he may look into the eyes of his daughter. I growl low in his ear, “You are not fit to lick the blood she has shed. And her retribution will reign tonight.” I lift my head, jaw like stone. “What punishment would you desire, Moya Koroleva?”
“For every caning bruise he left on my back…” She begins, inhaling deeply through her nose. “Take it back. Tenfold, Maya Korona.”
I don’t hesitate to strip him, keeping his back to me. She once told me the number of times he would take her to the wine cellar and whip her or cane her. How it would be five when she was younger, then ten, and then twenty. I kept the tally.
He will be dead before I stop swinging.
I plungethe needle into Victor’s chest with a satisfying snap of resistance, adrenaline burning through his veins, forcing his failing body to remain alive—long enough for me to carve my justice into him. Valentina’s justice.
His back is already a ruined canvas, flesh peeled and curling like bloody wallpaper strips, the gleam of bone catching the low light. I strike again and again, the whip cracking like thunder. Blood splatters across my face, my chest, my hands.
He only rasps. His voice is hoarse from too many screams.
I do not stop. I cannot stop. I am a beast, and this beast belongs to her.
Valentina watches me, smiling through tears, her body softer, freer than I have ever seen her. Her eyes hold me, drenched in adoration, and for a moment, the darkness inside me eases beneath her gaze. She is mine—utterly mine.
When Victor slumps, his heart staggering in his chest, I watch her. Just her. The instant she nods, I let the whip fly from my hand, sending it crashing against the far wall. The silence afterward is deafening.
I take her face in my bloody hands and crush my mouth to hers, our kiss iron and salt and fire. We are still dripping in red, but in this moment, I feel only her.
Then, together, we turn to Anton. The true storm is coming.
Valentina and I step up onto the platform, advancing toward the altar where Anton waits, shadows engulfing much of his face. They could never hide his black eyes, evil with sin and suffering. The air hums with violence, but for the first time tonight, it feels like the end is within reach.
Mikhail lowers his gun at last, slow and cautious, and in that instant—just that hesitation—Anton strikes, seizing the weapon.
The first crack of gunfire splits the air. He fires at us both, wild, brutal, desperate.
I grab Valentina and drag her down beneath the altar, pressing her body tight against mine, covering her with my upper half. Bullets smash against stone, chinks raining down around us, but none touch her. Never her.
Five rounds. The clip is nearly empty. And then he spins, firing the last round into the lock of the rear door. The metal shrieks, splinters. My wife and I lift our heads as the door bursts open?—
—but it isn’t Anton’s triumphant departure that fills the room.
It’s the crack of a pistol whipping against his skull. The blow makes him stumble back, his empty gun clattering from his hand.
And then I seeher.
The figure straightens from the shadow, regal even in ruin, one gloved hand still raised, her gun trained steady on Anton. My breath punches from my lungs. My chest seizes.
“Mamma…”
Roksana.
Bruised and swollen from our battle. But alive. Like a Tsarina come back from the dead.
The mask I’ve worn for six years fractures. Relief floods me. So sharp, I almost choke on it. Valentina whimpers and sobs, and I realize my eyes are stinging.
“I hope I am not too late,” my mother says, her voice cool as silk and steel. Midnight trousers tucked into boots, a fitted black coat belted at the waist, leather gloves still sticky with someone else’s blood.
Before Anton can recover, Sasha is on him, scooping the fallen pistol, pressing his own to Anton’s temple. “Move,” he growls, eyes blazing, “and I’ll shoot you in the goddamned foot, so my sister andbrother-in-lawmay still torture you. Valentina isn’t the only one who knows how to handle a gun.”
I rise and turn to Roksana. “I’d say you’re right on time, Mamma.”
Then Valentina surges forward, bloody hair swinging, her sobs raw and unguarded. She collides with Roksana in a fierce embrace.
