Page 127 of Jewel of the Assassin
“Get out,” Roman tells the staff, and all do. All except Zina, Mikhail, Levka, and Fleur. He doesn’t look at them. His eyes are all for me. “Shut the doors,” Roman orders, his voice carrying like a devil’s command.
Levka and Fleur slam them shut. The boom echoes like a coffin sealing.
Roman stands, not advancing. Why?
Anton growls in my ear and presses the blade harder, nicking my throat, prepared to slice.
Before terror can even root in me, a click slices the silence. The cock of a gun.
I shift my gaze, trembling. And there—Mikhail. The bruised,battered servant of God holds a pistol pressed to the back of Anton’s head.
My lips twitch. Laughter nearly spills out. The only priest bold enough to bring a gun to church. No one searched him. They underestimated him.
“I may be a priest,” Mikhail says, voice calm, iron. With his free hand, he rips the white collar from his throat and lets it fall. “And the Good Lord said vengeance is His. But today, Anton Makarova, I am not a priest. So let’s simply call this…poeticjustice. Let my lady go. Now.”
Anton stiffens. His grip loosens.
I don’t hesitate. I sink my teeth into his hand, wrench free, and spin. My knee drives up, hard, into his groin. He gasps, crumpling.
And then I’m running, tears blurring my vision, straight down the aisle.
More than hope, more than love, this islife, flooding back into my body, rushing my veins until I am dizzy with it. It is joy and fury and love and utter power, filling me, overflowing until I swear my heart will burst. I want to collapse to my knees. I want to grow wings and leap into Roman’s arms. I want everything, all at once, because my husband is here, my glorious avenger.
We are both avengers tonight.
His arms open, wide as the world, and I throw myself into him. We both wince from the pain, but he catches me, twirls me, crushing me to his chest. I sob against him, heart exploding, every nerve singing.
And then, Roman presses something cold and heavy into my hand—the Makarov pistol.
I look down, beam through my tears. “That is so thoughtful!”
The crowd stirs, moaning, sluggish, still fighting the drugged vodka’s grip. Roman only grins. He glances to the back, where Zina has slipped into place behind the podium, hands on the sound system. Shalun ruffles his feathers with an occasional caw.
Now, he’s heraldingtheirdoom.
“Any requests for our moment of triumph?” Roman asks me.
I grin, heart racing. “Promise not to laugh?”
He throws back his head with a guffaw, wild and unchained. “I cannot promise there will not be laughter, Moya Koroleva. But there will be screaming.”
I lean up, whisper the song in his ear. His lips curve into a grin of savage approval.
Roman strides up the raised dais, murmurs the title to Zina, then returns to me. His hand clasps mine. His eyes burn with fire.
The audience knows now. They know exactly what is coming.
Anton is still clutching his privates, glaring at us.
Roman looks up at Mikhail, voice reverent but resolute. “I will not ask permission, Father. Nor will I beg for forgiveness.”
Gun still trained on Anton, Mikhail smiles fiercely. “Then take my blessing, Roman and Valentina Makarova. For as the Good Book of Revelation says:all the corrupt, the cowards, the murderers, the immoral, and the liars—they will be thrown into the lake of fire and brimstone.”
Roman nods to Zina, then locks his eyes on me. His gaze is brimstone and promise. Mine is fire and covenant.
“Light ’em up, Moya Samotsvet.”
The first pounding chords of Fall Out Boy’s“Light ‘Em UpakaMy Songs Know What You Did in the Dark,”slam through the chapel. The very air vibrates. The pews shudder. I feel the beat of the blaring music in every part of my body—my adrenaline surging, coursing to the rhythm.
