Page 112 of Jewel of the Assassin

If it means sparing her another night of agony, I’ll bear hell itself. I’d take all its demons making me their bitch.

The realization feels closer and darker than ever. My sins have come home to haunt me, to terrorize me.

And I’ll pay the price.

The guard shoves me forward,the cold biting through the threadbare black wool coat Anton draped over my shoulders like a mockery of kindness. It’s thin—no more than a flimsy shield against the Alaskan chill. The unforgiving November wind howls around the quarry. But it’s warm enough to keep me from freezing before the performance.

I flex my fingers, raw from the chains, and my eyes sweep across the crowd. Faces both familiar and foreign twist with anticipation, many masked by the dim light but no less venomous. Some are my former staff—dejected, defeated—under Anton’s cruel thumb. Others are the family members of the mob heads I took down in my previous life, eyes burning with hate, thirsting for my blood.

But my gaze zeroes in on the platform, the makeshift throne that mocks me: a golden chair plundered from my own collection. There, my wife sits on Anton’s lap, swathed in a sweeping scarlet gown. The robe draped open reveals the low-cut neckline, like a bleeding wound against the black fur. The marks on her back are fresh, but she somehow manages to sit upright, her chin raised high.

I know the pain. It slices through my soul, and tonight, I’ll share it with her in more ways than one. There is no escape. No mercy. No reprieve. For the first time, doubt gnaws on my belief. Cold terror rips through me. Will we ever find a way out? Will we ever be free?

The wedding will go on, and I can almost see Anton raping her in the chapel following the ceremony. And I will be forced to watch, broken and powerless.

I catch sight of familiar faces in the front row—my mother, her eyes hollow but fierce. Sasha, nothing but guilt and regret. Mikhail and Zina with Shalun on her shoulder. Fleur and Levka, Emilian—all staring as I’m dragged into the arena. Their faces are etched with sorrow and icy horror. I want to offer hope, but I have none left to give. No pride. Just the relentless will to survive…for her.

Anton rises, tall and smug, his presence filling the air like poison. Valentina stands at his side, scowling. His voice carries across the quarry as he welcomes the crowd, “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight’s performance promises to be…unforgettable. A disclaimer: a fight to the death is not required.”

My heart tightens. I clench my fists, steel in my bones. “Whatever bastard guard he sends me,” I think, “I’ll have no hesitation in driving him into a shallow grave.”

Then the impossible happens—Father Mikhail stands. What? The sight slices deeper than any blade, twisting my gut with a pain so raw, I taste blood. This isn’t about guards. Anton is sending my own—my staff, my family—into the pit against me.

My teeth grind as phone screens around me light up with bets being placed.

The auction for my survival has begun.

And my greatest and oldest friend is coming to fight.

The crowd roarswith a sick chorus of jeers and cheers as Mikhail removes his outer cleric robe and flexes his hands.

I feel the priest’s words before I hear them—low, steady. “You will do what you must, Roman. We both will.”

Every bone in my body feels like it’s splintered.

He glances toward the platform—first to my wife, my trembling queen in that scarlet gown, then to Zina. “We owe it to her,” he says. “And I owe her everything.”

I don’t need him to explain. Only Valentina could pull two stubborn fools like Mikhail and Zina into each other’s orbit.

Tonight, he is not a priest. Tonight, I am not his master. We are just men—men who love our women. And men who will fight for them.

Scars cut down his left cheek—marks from another lifetime, another battle. A lifetime I saved him from when I dragged him from the fire.

Now I’m expected to destroy him.

The bell clangs—Anton’s idea of drama—and the crowd surges with noise.

Mikhail moves first. He’s quick, lighter on his feet than I remember, dodging with an agility I can’t match. I am brute force; he is water slipping between my fingers. I counter with years of blood-soaked training—executions, close-quarter kills, fights I could not lose. I swing, my fist a hammer aimed at his ribs. He pivots, and my knuckles glance off bone. He could have made me miss entirely. He didn’t. He’s pulling back—softening his blows. I do the same.

But the crowd is restless, sensing restraint.

Mikhail ducks a hook and clips my jaw—not hard enough to do damage. We circle again, breathing hard, the dirt shifting under our boots. My hands are numb from the cold, my chest tight from more than exertion.

I close in. One brutal punch lands on his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He stumbles, his boots grinding over loose rock.

I take him down.

The fight hits the dirt in a scramble of limbs. My weight pins him, but he rolls, trying to find air. I catch him in a headlock—tight, unrelenting. “I’ll make it quick,” I mutter against his ear.