Page 8 of Jewel of the Assassin
“I am Roman Makarova. And you… are my wife.”
ROMAN
It’s been two days. Why the hell isn’t she awake yet?
The thought claws at me like a beast. I sit at Valentina’s bedside, focusing on her form—the curve of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, the rise and fall of her chest. She’s beautiful. Perfect, even in unconsciousness.
I clench my fists, cursing myself for the hundredth time. The doctors around me speak in hushed tones, but I barely hear them over the hammering in my chest. They keep telling me she’s stable, she’s breathing, she’s fine. But why isn’t she awake?
Her beauty is consuming. Soft, golden curls spread over the pillows like sun rays tangled in silk. The delicate slant of her nose. Her flawless skin is so pale against the pristine white sheets.
I remember the sight of her in that ridiculous wedding gown when she first arrived. My blood was boiling, my hands trembling to touch her, to see her, tofeelher. But I resisted. Ihadto resist. She needs to wake on her own first until I can claim her in the way Iwant.
My head matron put her in a more appropriate attire, a silk nightgown, a soft pink shade that clings to her delicate frame in all the right places.
I wasthisclose to bathing her myself—hell, I wanted to—if only to take in every inch of her. But no. No. My willpower held, barely. I couldn’t—I will not—take that from her. The first time she feels my touch, she will be awake. She will see me and know what it means to belong to me. I have waited all these years for her.
The doctor did his blood work, ran his scans. Nothing is seriously wrong. Yet here we are, waiting.Chert.The doctor should be giving me answers. What if she doesn’t wake up? What if I’ve done something wrong? My mind whirls with the possibilities, each darker than the last.
The doctor glances up from the small tablet, his voice steady but quiet. “There’s no immediate reason she shouldn’t be awake. Physically, she is healing well. The trauma was mildly severe, but we can’t rule out the possibility of psychological factors—emotional trauma could have locked her subconscious.”
Psychological. Emotional.Dammit.
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to slam my fist into something, anything. The car accident should have been nothing more than a blip in her life. I put the best safety measures in place—the airbag systems, the reinforced frame. Yet here she is, my queen locked away behind the barricades of her own mind. It’s my fault. I set everything in motion. I should have done more.
But then, suddenly—she moves.
Her eyelids flutter open. Slowly. At first, it’s nothing more than a quiver, a tremble beneath the sheets. My heart stops. Her eyes—a flawless blend of violet and twilight—flicker to life, squinting against the dim light. Her lips part in a soft moan.
My gaze sharpens, my breath ragged.She’s awake.
The doctor looks at me and nods, stepping back toward the door with the nurses. I hold up a hand, silencing them, ensuring no one interrupts. I need to hear her voice. I need to know thatshe knows who I am, how I’ve claimed her instead of my goddamn brother.
Her eyes land on me, hazy, unfocused. A sharp gasp escapes her lips, and she winces, her hand going to her brow. “My head hurts…”
The doctor approaches slowly, cautiously, locking eyes with me more than her.
“It’s normal,” he says, low and comforting. “The swelling has gone down significantly. It should feel like a headache now.”
She’s alive. She’s here. She’s mine. That’s all that matters.
“The headache from hell,” she murmurs. I’ll arrange for a higher dose of pain medication.
Then, her eyes narrow. She turns her head toward me with an intensity that almost shocks me. She studies me for a moment before her lips part again.
“Who are you?” she asks, her voice uncertain, confused. “Where am I?”
My fingers twitch. Every muscle in my body tightens. She doesn’t remember me. Of course, she’s never met me.
I brush my knuckles across her soft cheek. “All will be explained soon, Moya Koroleva,” I murmur, my voice thick with possession, “But for now, you are home.”
Her brows furrow, and her gaze drifts to the room. “Home?” she repeats slowly, as if testing. Her eyes roam to the windows, taking in the view. “That’s… the ocean?”
From this angle, the forest surrounding my home parts to reveal a distant sweep of gray sea, calm and cold beneath the low-hanging mist. Fog curls along the treetops, breathing through the towering evergreens that crowd the cliffs. It’s stark. Wild. Remote.
Her hand slips out from beneath the blanket. She pauses, staring at her ring finger, gazing at the beautiful teardrop purple diamond ring, surrounded by clear diamonds. The one I slipped onto her finger while she was unconscious.
I smirk to myself, already anticipating the fire I know will spark in hereyes.
