Page 105 of Jewel of the Assassin
A shot rings out nearby. I break into a run, rounding the corner of the path from the cemetery into the open courtyard with all the calcified creatures, fused with glass.
There he is, concealed behind a hedge, gunning down anyone who gets past the perimeter. An explosion thunders through the air, causing my heart to ricochet, but I don’t stop moving. A bullet whizzes past me, slaughtering one of the statues, shattering it in moments. My chest clenches.
Roman shoots his head up, and I read his worst possible expression ever. Greater than fury. A storm of hellfire in his eyes, vowing to ruin me for this.
“I’m going to bloody your fucking ass, Valya,” he growls as I reach his side.
“You should have known I won’t leave you.” I take out my handgun and peek through the thin gaps in the hedge.
The silent snarl on his face stays, but I swear I see a flash of admiration, of pride in his eyes. “Time to put those crack shot skills to good use, Moya Koroleva,” he says, gesturing to the few mercenaries who get through the perimeter.
We fall into rhythm, backs touching, the sound of our gunfire echoing in the air. I match his pace, picking off shadows between the hedges. He moves with lethal precision, each pull of the trigger an execution. I aim and fire wildly buthit my targets every time, bringing down at least five mercenaries.
Then—a single crack splits the air, sharper than the rest.
Roman jerks.
For a heartbeat, I think he’s pivoting to reload—until the warmth suddenly splashes across the back of my hand.
“Roman!”
He stumbles, his body going heavy into mine, and I go down with him, knees biting into gravel. My palms press hard against his side, and they come away slick with red.
Shitshitshit!
“Stay with me,” I breathe, shoving down the panic clawing at my throat. I rip off my tights without thinking and wad the fabric against the wound.
His laugh is pained, wet. “You’d choose now to strip for me, Valya?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, leaning on the makeshift bandage with all my weight. “You’re not dying before I’ve had the chance to kill you myself.”
“Before or after I bloody your ass?”
I don’t answer.
An icy wind blasts against us, whipping my hair into my mouth. I look up. Terror rips through my veins.
A helicopter descends onto the lawn, its blades slicing the winter air into shards. Snow and leaves whip around us in a blinding storm. It lands between the maze of hedges and the black treeline, like some black beast, disgorging men in tactical gear, rifles leveled.
Roman’s hand finds my arm, shoving weakly. “Go, Valya.”
“No.” I slam my palms back to his wound. “Not without you.”
“Run,” he grits out, but I lean down, pressing my bloody hand to his cheek.
“Not happening.”Fucking love you.
Through the swirling snow and rotorwash, a figure steps down from the chopper. He walks with the same measured prowl as Roman—except his hair is a dark, curling shadow and his eyes are bottomless pits of polished black. The same sharp bone structure. The same mouth made for both threats and promises.
Anton.
Roman tenses beneath me, his breath hitching. “Fucking run.”
“I saidno.”
With his entourage, Anton comes to a stop before us, folding his hands behind his back. His gaze sweeps over us like we’re specimens in his collection. Then, in a voice that’s pure silk and venom: “So. My suspicions were correct. My dastardly brother carrying off my bride like the Romans and the sobbin’ women.”
I raise my chin and hiss, “Does it look like I’m sobbing to you?”
