Page 111 of Jewel of the Assassin
But I will claim that sword. I will rip it free from my brother’s grasp and use it to cut him into a thousand pieces. And I’ll give every single shard to her until she turns them into acrown.
THE NEXT DAY
The heavy dungeon door opens.
Between the cold and the chains, I’ve barely slept, but my wife is suffering a far worse nightmare. Valentina preys on my thoughts with every passing moment. Hard to fucking breathe. Like a fist strangling my lungs.
I glare at my brother when he rounds the corner and stares at me through the cell with a sick and twisted smile, his eyes soaking in the bare state of my privates. He’s wearing one of my black wool coats with my suit underneath and signature black leather gloves with the fur trim.
“Where is she, Anton?” My jaw hardens to granite, along with my spine.
“Sleeping,” he says while removing one glove at a time and slapping them across his palm. “I am quite proud of how I wore her out.”
“She needs medical treatment, you rotting bastard,” I say through gritted teeth while he paces.
“Don’t worry your pretty, golden head, brother. My medic is good. Her back is healing. How does it feel to know my scars cover yours?”
I clench my fists. “All I feel is a mad and violent eagerness for when I will cover your whole body, from head to toe, in blood.”
“Oh, you will get your chance. But not my blood.” His smile grows into a grin. It pours ice over the molten fire in my veins. “You see, I am quite intrigued by the lengths you will go to help her. She has certainly gone to extraordinary lengths. Did you know she kept crying out your name while I fucked her? Even though I plunged her face into the bath every time.”
I yank at the chains again, fuming, “You’re a walking corpse, Anton. A worthless flesh bag, you understand?”
“Your threats will not help her, Roman. But there are other ways…”
He paces again. I track him with my eyes the whole time, like a predator. I may be prey right now, but I am the one in the shadows, preparing, waiting. A time will come. And I will strike.
“Talk, mraz’ poganaya.”Filthy scum.
“Dear Papa and I have decided to host the wedding here. He will be here soon. While I’m enjoying my dessert of a honeymoon before dinner, it doesn’t mean you can’t be polite and offer a wedding gift to the bride and groom.”
“She’snotyour bride.”
“Fortuitous,” he goes on, unhindered. “The weather has relented for the next week. A little window of opportunity for our guests to arrive. We will likely enjoy an extended holiday here…until the thaw.”
I can already wager who those guests are. Anton’s allies. My enemies. Enemies I made by dismantling his former trafficking ring, assassinating those I needed to.
“They are quite eager to see your head on the auction block. But for the sake of my future wife and our bargain with her sacrifice, I found a compromise.” He pauses, his face fractured by thecell bars.
“Spit it out, Anton.”
“An arena block.” Eyes gleaming, cruel and calculated. Voice like steel. “The old quarry on the edge of the island is perfect. Seating layouts are already underway. And spotlights. These things take a bit of time to arrange.”
I plan my rearrangement of his face. Like a fucking Picasso painting. Or Jackson Pollock. I’m flexible.
“Tomorrow night, you will fight in the quarry. Whomever I choose,” he defines, lowering his brows, a muscle bouncing in his jaw. A hidden implication. Fear rivals my hatred for the first time. “There is a long list. And attendees will be betting on your skills and performance. If you give a good performance, you will spare Valentina one night of fucking. Instead, she will heal and sleep. After all, I’d prefer her to be well rested for the wedding.” He adjusts his coat with a heated arrogance.
“Can I assume this fighting ring will also involve degradation and torture?”
Anton studies me, stroking his jaw. “Why, Roman, you clever boy. Some fights will drag. Some will be quick. But the money…I’ll make an exorbitant amount. You’ve angered powerful players.”
Acid rises in my throat. I envision the agony ahead, but I stare him down and say,Fuck you. Do your worst.
“One boon you should thank me for,” he finalizes. “A fight to the death is not a requirement. Only the performance.”
Yes, flexibility means more money for him. More power.
“I fully expect you to give a good show, Roman. Or…” He leers down at me, needing no other words with the veiled vow.
