Page 26 of Jewel of the Assassin
A small twitch of her lips. Not a smile. But not nothing.
She sets it down. Moves to the next.
This one’s more posed—her in a long white coat with leather gloves and a fur collar, hair pinned, standing with her back half-turned to the camera as she looks out over the sea. Regal. Composed. Isolated.
Her eyes linger. “I don’t remember this day.”
I step closer, just behind her shoulder. “You were restless that week,” I say smoothly. “Said the manor felt too quiet. I brought in a photographer to cheer you up. You hated the idea until you saw the wardrobe.”
She picks up the third. It’s the two of us seated across the chessboard. She looks exasperated. I look amused. She’s halfway to knocking over a bishop.
“You and your chess matches,” I murmur, watching her face. “You do far better with social games. Charming as hell, Valya. Your reputation? It’s legendary. You capture a room the moment you enter—everyone drawn to you like moths to a funeral pyre. You can ruin a man with those royal eyes… or resurrect him.”
I illustrate a faux memory of how she would win every murder mystery-themed party we’ve held.
Returning the picture frame to the mantle, she eyes me from the side. “Only two years after a marriage of convenience. But you seem to enjoy watching me and studying me.”
I meet her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Every move. Every breath. Even when you thought you were alone.”
Suspicion creeps into her expression. “Why aren’t there more of these?” she asks. “Portraits. Pictures of us. If we’ve been married two years…”
“There are more,” I say smoothly. “In my private wing. I keep those for myself. The appropriate andlessappropriate ones.”
She looks at me again. I don’t blink. Don’t shift. She’s still testing.
So, I offer her a version of the truth, laced with poison and silk. “The first time I saw you,” I say, closing the distance between us and settling my thumb against her lower lip, “was at the Volkov’s winter gala. You wore a deep crimson gown, like blood on snow. And an intricate gold mask. A flame slipping through a room full of ice-veined predators. I knew then you’d never belong to anyone but me.”
She stills.
Her lower lip does not tremble beneath my touch, impressing me. She remembers none of it, but her instincts are screaming,some of this is real.That night was. She was nineteen. That night, she was mine.
Her lips part with unanswered questions, her eyes flicking to the room, expecting more clues. I lean in just enough for her to feel my warmth. “The world outside this manor doesn’t deserve to see you. ButIdo.”
She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t pull away when I kiss her.
I pushopen the chapel door, letting the warm flicker of candlelight spill into the hall. The reverent air smells of pine and wax, like even the silence remembers its purpose here.
“I had this restored last winter,” I tell Valentina, guiding her inside. “Figured God and I ought to renegotiate terms.”
She gives me a sideways look, amused, but before she can speak, I glance up and notice the familiar figure sitting on the front pew clutching his rosary beads.
“Ahh, yes. I assumed you’d be here,” I say, eager to introduce my wife to my most trusted staff member and old friend. Equal to Zina, of course.
Father Mikhail slowly stands and turns. A soft gasp leaves Valentina’s throat. Because one side of his face is burnt and twisted. He wears his collar beneath a heavy coat and military boots, and his friendly eyes miss nothing.
We meet him at the halfway mark of the chapel.
“Valentina,” I say, watching her take him in, “this is Father Mikhail. Spiritual advisor, licensed psychologist for my staff, and ex-special forces. Don’t let the cassock fool you—he can kill a man with his rosary.”
With a knowing smile, Mikhail folds his hands behind his back, eyeing Valentina. “Welcome. News of your unfortunate accident has spread. We will do everything in our power to help you rekindle your memory.”
I match his shrewd gaze. We’ve gone to hell and back together. Even Father Mikhail, bound to his saintly duties, will break the Ninth Commandment for me. His oath to me in repaying a debt is stronger than religious legalism.
Before Valentina can answer, the chapel door creaks again, revealing Zina, her crow Shalun perched on her shoulder like she’s some Slavic war witch.
“Any changes to the dinner menu?” she asks in a brisk voice, her subtle heels clicking on the polished wood floor. No acknowledgment of Mikhail, which is how I know she’s awareof him.
