Page 84 of Jewel of the Assassin
I heave a sigh, letting my fingers drop from her hair to her chin. Understanding and regret tighten my chest. “Ahh, tvoyo serdtse slishkom bolshoye dlya etogo mira.” I translate:your heart is too big for this world. “I would give you more if I could, Valya. But you know my profession. You know the enemies I have made. And it would not only wreck me if one of these enemies were to steal you from me, Valentina. It would unleash such a bloodthirsty being, I’d make the rivers run red and the skies forget peace. I’d make the devil my bitch and raise the armies of hell to take you back.”
She nods, but her lower lip trembles as I touch the center of her chin, hovering here before she opens her mouth, “What about your family? Or my family?”
My expression sobers. “You have shared your memories with me of your father. We both know they are not happy ones, and for good reason. It took years of willpower for me not to simply rip you from his hold. I won’t allow him one foothold. He does not deserve to breathe the air of your presence.”
“That makes sense.” She takes my hand, and my jaw hardens when she kisses my scarred palm. “And your family?”
“Similar memories. Different reasons.”
She accepts my simplified reason.
“Oh…um, did you want something?” She looks up, violet eyes shimmering with playful expectancy.
“Da, and not just to tell you how tantalizing you are in this skirt,” I say with a sharper, darker edge while gripping her backside, bunching the leather. “Naughty girl.” I trace a finger along the deep V-cut. “I know your intention was to tempt me, wasn’t it?”
She shrugs but tilts her head, adorable mischief in her expression. “Do you disapprove of my tempting ways?”
“Never. But I must refrain from fucking you against the nearest wall for the moment…”
She scrunches her brows. “Why?”
“I have a gift for you.” I wink and take her arm again, gesturing to the hall. “Something that may help with the longing you have as it pertains to hosting guests and seeing the outside world.”
“Color me intrigued.”
29
“So, it’s not just a dress. It’s a weapon.”
VALENTINA
“Oh, Roman! It’s beautiful,” I gush over the dress.
More than beautiful—it’sbreathtaking.
I gaze at myself in the gilded bedroom mirror, admiring how the deep blood-red velvet gown clings to my curves like a tempting secret. The fabric catches the light like a fine, rich wine. The neckline dips low, daring but elegant, framed by subtle black corset accents. The cut cinches my waist, echoing royalty. I love the narrow wisps of fabric serving as off-the-shoulder sleeves.
The pale gold skin of my thigh teases the narrow high-slit, leaving my husband’s thoughts wrecked and wanting. Around the bodice and hem, golden thread weaves baroque filigree like creeping vines—ornate, regal, and a little wicked.
I gasp when Roman comes up behind me to secure a mask upon my face, delicate and gold. Tears glisten in my eyes when he adds the necklace with a large teardrop of bloodstone jewelry—a dark crimson gem in a frame of antique gold. It feels like it was mined from the heart of something ancient and vengeful.
I run my hand over the fabric again, heart hammering.
“God and the devil would both kneel before you tonight, Moya Koroleva,” Roman says, his hands cupping my bare shoulders, his breath roaming along the side of my neck.
Beaming, I spin around to face him, touching his crisp white shirt, first three buttons undone to betray the wealth of muscle on his chest. “I absolutely love it.”
“Khoroshi.” I recognize the simple Russian word ‘Good’. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek, summoning tingles. “Kogda ty schasliva, ves’ mir siyayet dlya menya.”
When I lift my brows, he smirks and translates, “When you’re happy, the whole world shines for me. Da, Valya, foryouare indeed my world.”
Warm flutters erupt in my stomach, my center tightening. Roman’s pec flexes beneath my palm.Don’t melt, Valentina, don’t melt.
After the night I was attacked, and Roman confirmed my theory, and he fucked me beside the hot springs, I had the worst nightmare—and memory of my father…
The nightmare starts the same way it always does. My mother is screaming. The gunshot rings in my ears, deafening. I’m covered in her blood. My father’s hands are on me.
He’s dragging me from her body, my fingers slipping in her blood-soaked hair, trying to stay with her. He shoves me into the car, handcuffs my wrists behind me, and uses his tie to blindfold me until we arrive back home. He tosses me into the wine cellar and bolts the door, saying I can’t come out until I calm down and accept my mother is gone. I pound my fists against it, screaming for her. Screaming until my voice is gone.
