Page 73 of Jewel of the Assassin
Mikhail chuffs an easygoing laugh while Zina rages. “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, but I would.” I grin.
“Otkroy etu yobuchuyu dver’, Valentina! Klyanus’, ya podsiplyu kakie-nibud’ travy v tvoy chay, i ty budesh’ srat’ do Rozhdestva.”
I pause for a beat, then hear Mikhail chuckle. “She said if you don’t open the door, she will slip something into your tea, and you’ll be shitting until Christmas.”
Tossing my hair back, I laugh more because Roman has done far worse to my ass.
“What on earth are we supposed to do in here?” Zina asks, her voice closer to the door. I jump when she bangs on it.
“Drink. Debate ethics. Stare longingly into each other’s eyes or whatever it is sexually repressed middle-aged adults do. And there is a sturdy desk, so I’d suggest you use your imagination.”
Oh, I’m so wicked. And I’m sure there’s a special place in hell for me with trapping a priest. Thankfully, my husband would follow me down, knock the devil off his throne, and crown me Queen of Hell.
Zina’s ice-sharp voice slices through the air. “Valentina. Open this door.”
“I wish I could,” I lie cheerfully. “But I’m pretty sure the key just slipped out of my hand. Terrible butterfingers. Don’t bother yelling. I’ve instructed the other staff members not to disturb you.”
Rising, I sweep away with all the satisfaction of a woman who has done God’s work—with alcohol and a little forced proximity.
“This is all your fault!” Zina snipes at Mikhail.
With the sounds of their bickering fading, I disappear down the hall with a smug little smile on my lips.
I pause when I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling, gilded mirror. And smile. Nothing wrong with admiring oneself. Especially in this dress. A royal blue cashmere, it’s molded to my body. Roman left it for me before he vanished off to wherever, along with a note that simply read:Wear this if you want the world to bow.
Typical Roman. Over-the-top. Always assuming I’ll do exactly what he wants.
And he’s absolutely right.
I turn to the side, watching the fabric ripple like liquid ink over my hips, the neckline daring the world to look—and keep looking. The sleeves are long and proper, but everything else? Deliciously inappropriate, the neckline dipping in a daring plungethat frames my collarbones and the swell of my breasts like a lover’s hands.
I look like power. A temptress and queen waiting for her king to arrive at any moment.
Especially with the crown brand on full display. I trace one fingertip around it, admiring the faceted jewel he created. The level of dedication and craft was unparalleled as he’d applied each thin needle. I don’t cringe in horror anymore.
As I pass the kitchen, I peek in to find the staff cleaning from washing dishes to spraying down the drainage system for whenever they cut meat. I smile to myself because Emilian has banned me after the unfortunateincident. Another “not-my-thing”. I wasn’t exactly tired of everyone waiting on me hand and foot. I love it. But I also hate not feeling productive. And since I have no memory of past endeavors, I decided to try my hand at cooking breakfast.
When the pan caught fire, and the crepes looked more like charcoal briquettes, Emilian forced me out himself, waving a rolling pin the whole time.
I look forward to sharing how I busied my time when my husband finally returns. Of course, he left me a lavish letter, complete with a wax crest seal and handwritten calligraphy, detailing the gifts he’d left me, his solemn promise to return, and instructions to be ready for him at any time. Apparently, that includes no masturbation. I failed hard, which is also why I’ve tried to keep busy.
One of those ways is to take a bouquet of black tulips—compliments of Fleur—to the local cemetery in the evenings.
After picking up the flowers and slipping on my coat, I make my way to the graveyard. It’s small but secluded, nestled near the bluff’s edge where the wind always carries a chill. The air is sharp with sea salt, tangling in my hair and tugging at the hem of my coat as if urging me to turn back.
I don’t.
Instead, I breathe it in. It reminds me of when Roman tookme walking along the shore just last week. I’d wandered ahead, stooping to collect the random things the sea coughed up—bits of driftwood, gray stones, a rusted key, a brine-coated glove. He’d watched me like I was the rarest thing on that beach, even as I laughed over something as silly as a tangled clump of sea glass.
I blink the memory away as I pass through the crooked gate.
There’s no real reason I come here. Not one I can name. The graves are unmarked—just smooth stones, neatly spaced, weathered like they’ve always been here. I shouldn’t care. But I bring a tulip for each one anyway. Always black.
One by one, I kneel and place them. Tulip. Stone. Tulip. Stone. Something like reverence settles into my bones, even though I don’t know who lies beneath. Or why I always feel like I’m being watched here.
Maybe it’s just the wind.
