Page 25 of Jewel of the Assassin
He sets the teacup down, then crooks a smile. “We race the custom Ferraris I had flown in from Italy—yours always edges past mine, and you never let me forget it. We take the ice yacht out onto the bay when it freezes, slicing through glaciers like kings and ghosts. We drink vintage vodka by the fire and argue whether Mahler or Tchaikovsky is better for making love…right after you’ve sent your temperamental falcon to snatch a rabbit for its dinner.”
I blink. “Really? Alaska doesn’t seem like the ideal climate for Ferraris.”
“You insisted.” He smirks. “I had to build a heated hangar for the cars. And your royal bird has her own cedar wood aerie. Naturally, she’s as pampered and impossible as her mistress.”
My blood sizzles when his eyes stroll along my body before settling on my lips. “You also force me into weekly chess matches you never intend to win, bake when you’re furious, and once tried to seduce me mid-argument using nothing but red lipstick and a pair of opera gloves.”
I stare at him, heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks. “Hmm…did I win?”
He levels me with a gaze so direct it punches the breath frommy lungs. “Definewin,” he says darkly. “Because I lost all my control.”
I remind myself to breathe as he leans closer, voice low and smooth. “We’ve gone to Vienna for the opera, to Prague for the Christmas markets, and you once insisted on visiting Paris purely for the pastries.”
“And what doyoulike to do?”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowed with a mysterious glint. “I like to watch you live in my world. To see you touched by beauty and then take it into your own hands.”
A pause.
“And sometimes…I work.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Work. That’s vague.”
He smiles. “Vague keeps you safe.”
Safe.
Then why does it feel like he’s the most dangerous thing in the room?
10
The lines are drawn, the pieces moving
ROMAN
She is everything I’ve ever imagined.
Everything I’ve plotted in silence, bled for in shadows, and built this empire to claim.
“How is your head, maya Valya?” I ask her, always keen as to her condition, as we stroll down the outer hallway of our room.
“It’s fine, Roman. Stop fussing.”
I crook a smile. She walks ahead of me, barefoot on the polished floors, clad in a form-fitting black dress with long sleeves and a hem that falls just shy of her shins. It flares subtly at the end, moving like a shadow with every step. She wears the necklace I gave her, a single strand of white pearls with a delicate amethyst teardrop. Her golden curls cascade down her back, wild but soft.
She moves like an untamed creature—and God knows I don’t want her tamed. Simply ruled. I will harvest that wild spirit and make it my own. Like breaking a mare until it develops a deep bond of trust for its master. Andonlyits master.
We reach the west sitting room. The fire’s already lit. Thewindows display the sea—endless gray, the whitecaps breaking like snapping teeth against the cliffside. And above the fireplace: the frames I’d directed Zina to place, each one a carefully-planted seed.
Valentina sees them.
Her pace slows, brows drawing together, that lovely mouth tightening. Suspicion. Recognition. Confusion. A trifecta I crave.
She steps toward the mantle and reaches for the first photo—her lying in the snow, cheeks flushed, laughing while making a snow angel. Zina did excellent work bringing my visions to life with the help of AI generation and high-tech printers.
She asks, quietly, “When was this taken?”
I don’t hesitate. “Last winter. You stormed out after accusing me of cheating at chess. I told you to cool off, and you did. Quite literally. You refused gloves, fell face-first into the snow, and made that angel out of pure spite.”
