Page 115 of Jewel of the Assassin
I bite down on a leather strap, my cries muffled as he flushes my whip marks with saline, cleaning them before rubbing on a thin layer of antibiotic ointment with lidocaine. The sting eases slightly, and the cool gel spreads over my welts,soothing some of the fire.
Roman’s wounds are far worse. And I have no idea where he is or if Anton has even sent him a medic.
“This is proof you belong to me,” he murmurs, his thumbs tracing the red lines. My breaths turn shallow with each passing touch. “The right to ruin you, take you apart, and stitch you back together.”
I lift my head just enough to glare. “God complex much?”
He chuckles low and menacing. “I will bring you to my temple where you may worship every night, Valentina. My divine right. And after I’ve brought you as low as I desire…only then will I raise you higher.”
Malignant narcissist.
Roman may be an asshole, but he knows he’s an asshole. And an asshole can still love, can still burn the world for his queen, then worship and fuck her on top of a throne of rotting corpses.
The morbid thought keeps me breathing, hoping, praying.
I keep my jaw tight. Sometimes, Anton covers the wounds lightly with telfa pads; sometimes he leaves them open to air, reapplying the ointment when it begins to dry. Every motion is methodical, a reminder that he enjoys the control as much as the brutality.
But Anton could never bring me lower than Roman has. Or raise me higher.
Roman knows how to wreck me into something beautiful with his degradation and praise, surging a riot of endorphins and adrenaline through my body. He tests and pushes until I break. A controlled break, as far as he believes I can go and not beyond.
But then he gives me his hand, enabling me to rebuild myself stronger than before.
Anton only knows brutality. Violence. Grinding someone down into the dirt and rubbing salt in their wounds. Just like now.
He leans forward, breath warm against my ear. “Only a few more days now, my bride. Sunday.” His voice is almost tender, making my skin crawl. “Our wedding will be beautiful. And don’tworry—your former husband will be there. Front row. Our guest of honor.”
My lip curls against the pillow. “He can’t if he bleeds out tonight.”
Anton traces the untouched skin on my shoulders where his whip never landed. “What would you give to make sure he does not bleed out, Valentina?”
I turn just enough to glare at him. “He fought so your dick would stay in your pants for the next two nights.”
A soft chuckle. “So he did. But he is terrible at bargaining. He only thought ofyourneeds. Not your desires. Arrogant and naive. My brother is too used to winning. How the tables have turned.”
“What the fuck do you want, Anton?”
His lips press into a slow, knowing smile, and my blood chills. He cups my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “You have been such a good little bride the past couple of days. I believe you have earned yourself a reward.”
Slowly, he turns me onto my back. I hiss from the raw pain, but the cool sheets help. All I want is to pull the nearest one over me, but Anton thrusts it away, leaving me naked, vulnerable.
And then, he rises, hovering over me with his fists braced on either side of me. The kiss comes. I try to jerk away, but he grips my jaw, forcing his tongue inside. My teeth scrape against that tongue, but he holds my jaw open. I taste bile, blood, and salt as his kiss slaughters me.
When his hands move to cover my breasts, I bring mine to his chest and try to shove him off. He pinches and twists my nipples hard in a warning, and I cry out, his mouth devouring the shriek.
My breath catches as he lowers his head and touches his lips to the side of my neck, purring low, “This is what you will give. Your pleasure. I will ravish you. You will whimper, moan, and beg, and when I finally give you what you need, then you will scream my name so the whole manor can hear.Myname. Not his.”
It’s worse. So much worse.
If he just turned me over and fucked my ass without lube, it would be better. But I know he won’t. This is his only demand tonight. The only way he will send help to Roman. And every second is another second my husband could die.
My hands tremble as he rubs his nose along my cheek. “Send him the medic first,” I say.
“Hmm…” He nips my jaw and rubs the pad of his thumb along one nipple. “Give me three orgasms first, and then you’ll get proof.”
I have no defense. No choice but to drop all my walls. Everything in me wants to lock up, to stiffen, to work against the pleasure. The voices in my head struggle.
Don’t come.
