Page 76 of Jewel of the Assassin
I stab him again, and again, and again—blade sinking into muscle, bone, sinew, until his blood is spurting hot and wet against my skin, painting me in vengeance. My heart slams. My breath’s ragged. Adrenaline screams through me, euphoric and blinding.
He twitches. He gurgles. I keep going. I drive the knife into his hand—his filthy fucking fingers—over and over while sobs and screeches rip from my throat. He groped me.He touched me.He made me suck him off. I finish it with a clean slash across his throat, and his blood spills onto the snow like beautiful melted poppies.
A twig snaps.
I freeze, panting, blood dripping down my face, my breasts, my dress, my hands. I look up.
Roman.
Standing at the edge of the cemetery in a black suit, like he just stepped out of a black market boardroom. His golden hair is pulled back into a pristine, low ponytail, not a strand out of place. He looks like a glorious god. I look like a fucking Carrie knockoff.
I glance down at the ruined mess at my feet, then back up at him. “I can explain.”
He starts toward me, slow, one hand clenched at his side, his jaw ticking?—
—but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I jab a finger at the corpse. “He started it.”
26
“The man is the head. The woman is the soul.”
ROMAN
And she fucking finished it.
“I heard the shot,” I say, moving closer, taking note of her flushed cheeks, her panting breaths, and the state of her body. She drops the knife and stares down at her palms.
I’d just arrived. Once Levka informed me Valentina had gone to the greenhouse, I was making my way there when the gun went off.
I examine my wife. No definable injuries I can make out, though it’s more difficult with all the blood covering her. She’s shaking, her hands trembling, but she doesn’t seem too worse for wear.
“I really liked this dress,” she murmurs, tugging at the long sleeves, soaked in blood. “And the coat.”
Kneeling beside her, I lift a single thumb to her blood-splattered cheek and say, “I will buy you enough dresses and coats to fill the manor, Moya Samotsvet.But I must know: are you injured in anyway?”
I don’t give a damn if my hands roam. I check her throat for any knife slashes and then her chest. She shakes her head and whimpers when I cup her breasts, smearing away the red, discerning for any injuries.
“I think I may have sliced my hands a little…” She opens her quivering palms, and I draw them closer, smearing away the blood and finding the cuts. Not too deep. Mostly chafing from the handle. Good.
“I made a bit of a mess,” she shrugs, her blush shimmering right through all the blood.
“Let’s simply call it violent art.” I smile, tugging her dress back up with care. “Macabre, yes. But I’m not complaining about the view.”
She huffs a soft laugh, unsteady as she tries to rise to her feet. I catch her under the arms, lifting her easily. Her legs buckle anyway.
Without hesitation, I sweep her into my arms. She doesn’t protest. Just folds into me like she belongs there, her head nestling against my chest. I couldn’t give a fuck about the blood on my thousand-dollar suit.
My heart…fucking hell. It’s pounding so loud I’m sure she can hear it.
I glance down at the corpse, his blood puddling in the soil like wine. Then I tap my chip to summon Zina. No answer. I try again. Still nothing.
“I sort of…um…locked her and Mikhail in the study,” Valentina murmurs, eyes flicking up.
“You what?”
“They were bugging me,” she says with a shrug, one I feel more than see. “I took their phones and told them they couldn’t come out until they finished the vodka bottle I left with them.”
