Page 24 of Jewel of the Assassin
I glance at the marble walls, the lush windows, the forest and mountains outside—and then I glance back at him.
“Even you?” I ask before I can stop myself. The amethyst ring on my finger is the unspoken vow, a cold, metallic promise.
He grins, slow and deliberate. “Especially me.”
I stab at a medallion filet a little too forcefully. “And what do you do, exactly, that gives you all this?” I gesture to the estate, this impossible luxury of an island empire.
Roman lifts a piece of buttered bread to his mouth, bites, chews slowly, and swallows. Always taking his time.
“Politics?” I press.
He chuffs a soft laugh while wiping his mouth with a black linen napkin. “Adjacent,” he says with dry amusement.
I narrow my eyes. “Military?”
He leans back in his chair, his white collar open, forearms bulging with veins, relaxed against the arms of the chair like he owns the world.
Because he does.
He grins again—mocking this time, downright smug. “Adjacent.”
My cheeks flush. My appetite vanishes into heat and frustration. I cross my legs under the table, my silk nightgown sticking to my thigh, and try to remember that Iwantedthis conversation.
“You’re infuriating,” I mutter, spearing a roasted beet from the salad, pairing it with the rich goat cheese, toasted walnuts, and honeyed balsamic. Almost too beautiful to eat.
Roman chuckles low in his chest and lifts his glass lazily. Fine, faint scars riddle his forearms. “You’re free to ask me anything, Valentina. And I look forward to any challenge you give me.”
I want to scream and kiss him at the same time.
I glance around the room, searching. “Do I have a journal or somethingadjacentin here to help?”
He nods toward the dessert tray between us, where a Napoleon torte glistens like temptation. My mouth waters at the pastry with vanilla custard, served with whipped crème fraîche.
“That,” he says with a smirk, “is one thing you never had patience for.”
He taps the tip of his fork against the delicate outer crust. “Too many layers. You’d always try to eat it from the middle, like a barbarian.”
I lean over with a smile, inching my fork toward the pastry with effortless grace.
“Even barbarians can be queens,” I murmur, lifting a bite to my lips, custard catching at the corners of my mouth.
His eyes darken as he watches me. And I know I’ve just won that round.
“I want a journal,” I tell him, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t care what it looks like. It can be sturdy and leather and smell like male and Vetiver.” I stare at him, keeping my eyes sultry and regal. “Or it can be fluffy and pink. I don’t give a damn. But I want one.”
“Care for a quill pen with that, Moya Koroleva?” he banters.
“A regular pen is fine. Unless you’d care to volunteer your blood for the ink.”
He smiles, eyes glinting with something between amusement and desire. “You’re lucky I like my women with claws,” he says, leaning in just enough to let the warmth of his breath skim my cheek. “And lucky I bleed only for you.”
He says it like he has bled for me. More than once. Maybe more than twice?
“So, what do we do? Together, I mean…” I trail off, my spine prickling when his eyes gleam. “Otherthan the obvious.”
Oh, now, he finally reaches for his tea. I swear I’ve never seen a man sip herbal infusions with such dominant masculinity.
“In the rare times I do not leave you unable to walk,maya Valya,” he murmurs, “we do as we please.”
