Page 30 of Jewel of the Assassin
His long blond hair, now a shade darker from the water, is pulled back, tied in a knot at the top of his head, exposing the nape of his neck.
That’s when I see it.
A crown. Twisted and jagged. Inked in deep blacks and violent reds, itburnswith flames licking at the tips, fresh blood dripping from the gold. It’s not just a tattoo, it’s awarning. A crown earned through suffering. He said he earned this place in blood. A bloodline forged in iron and war.
And whether I like it or not, something inside me responds with fear, of course, but also with respect and want, with need.
How can I be married to Roman Makarova for two years and not remember what he does for a living? Unless…he’s never told me.
Am I just a trophy wife? Some beautiful prize, but I never leave this luxurious prison? Do I simply run this estate with Zina and take up fencing?
I recognize it’s a life any woman could want. A good life. Exceptional, even. But something deep in my bones hungers for more. That can’t be all my life’s purpose.
I try to focus on him. He looks like something from another world—like Adonis dragged from the battlefield, not a garden. Roman moves with the grace of a killer and the restraint of a priest. Like a man who could kill or worship with equal devotion.
And then, he starts.
Weights. Core. Push-ups. Each movement is crisp, methodical, almost punishing. He pushes himself harder than I’ve ever seen a man drive his body. I can’t remember, but I know. He’s the perfect predator.
My mouth goes dry.
There’s somethingprimalabout his focus, his discipline. Theway his jaw clenches with each rep, sweat coating his chest and collarbones. He doesn’t grunt or curse. He just moves, drives, controls.
Arousal stirs inside me, heat curling low in my belly. Impossible to ignore. I clench my thighs. My gaze slips back to his spine, to the scars. Why do my fingertips trace my back through the fabric of my dress?
A sharp flash strikes my mind:
The crack of a cane across my back. The scent of must and wine. A memory of being tied face-down, wrists burning from the pull of rope, the sting of punishment.
My stomach twists with revulsion.
But then…Roman.
Another memory surfaces.Hisbelt. Not the same. God, not the same. Roman didn’t hit to hurt. He struck to arouse andawaken.
He knew exactly where to hit, how to hit to trigger pain laced with pleasure, driving me wild with desire. He made me beg with my body.
A tremble steals down my thighs before the fluttering of wings interrupts me.
I spin around, heart slamming into my ribs. Zina stands just behind me, arms crossed, the judging crow on her shoulder.
“Curiosity in this house can be fatal, Valentina,” she says, her voice like silk drawn over a blade. “It’s not polite to spy.”
Heat floods my face. “Well, he’s my husband. I reserve the right to spy on him.”
Zina lifts a perfectly manicured brow. “You are also his queen. And a queen trusts her king.”
I glance toward the gym doors, where Roman hasn’t stopped moving. “I could say the same about him.”
She steps forward, her tone lowering, “The things Roman has done to build this Alaskan oasis…they would curdle the blood of the most hardened of warriors. He’s fought for every stone in this manor, for every inch of peace we have here. We all trust him with our lives.” She tilts her head, examining me. “You should, too.”
I purse my lips, contemplating. When I lift my eyes again, I find her smirking. “But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you were spying so much as you were admiring.”
I roll my eyes, trying to deflect. “Sure.”
“Or salivating.”
My face goes up in flames.
