Page 113 of Jewel of the Assassin

And I do. The sleeper hold cuts his consciousness fast. His body slackens, his face pressed to the quarry floor.

A ripple of dissatisfaction passes through the seats—sharp, disappointed murmurs.

I let him drop, rising slowly, chest heaving. From here, it looks like I’ve ended him.

Anton, of course, eats it up.

A guard hurries forward, checking Mikhail’s pulse, then gestures with a shake of his head. Anton spreads his hands in mock reassurance, the golden throne behind him gleaming under the floodlights.

“Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen,” he calls out, his grin flashing like a knife. “We have one moredemonstration to come.”

The cold in my blood deepens when I hear the name.

“Sergei Petrovich has won the auction for torture rites tonight.”

Fuck.

Two years ago, I put a bullet in Sergei’s father on a Black Market contract. I remember the spray of blood. The collapse. The stillness.

Now his son will take his payment in flesh. Mine.

37

“Make it stop.”

VALENTINA

Anton’s men drag Roman to a metal post in the center of the arena.

They chain him with his wrists high above his head. Back to the open air. Naked. Exposed. My heart rams against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.

Break free.

We have to. We’d both rather die than live on our knees.

Every time my back brushes Anton’s chest, the half-healed welts from last night’s whipping flare like open fire.

Sergei Petrovich strolls into the arena, a coiled whip dangling from his fist like a serpent. His smirk isn’t for the crowd—only for Roman.

I don’t know their history, but I see the scorn in Sergei’s dark eyes. And simpering triumph. He’s dressed to impress, in a three-piece suit and a long, wool black coat. Short black hair slicked back to display his face, nothing but wrath.

“Thought you could take from me and walk away?” His voice carries, oily with venom. “My father rotted in the dirt because of you.”

The first strike lands, sharp, cruel. The whip slices across Roman’s back, raising an angry welt. He doesn’t flinch. I do. I clutch my throat as my breath thins. Tears sting my eyes. The pain in my back screams out in empathy.

The second comes harder. Then the third. By the fifth, blood beads along the lash marks. I clamp my jaw so tight it aches. With every strike, my marks remember the bite of the whip. My blood curdles.

Anton’s arm tightens around me, his palm resting heavy on the high slit of my thigh. Every few moments, his hand creeps higher, possessive, obscene, as if Roman’s torment is foreplay.

Roman tips his head, a bloodless smile curling his mouth. “Would you like to hear,” he says, voice low and cutting, “how he begged for his life like an impotent dog?”

Sergei growls, swinging again. The lash comes down with a crack that makes the front row flinch.

Roman’s shoulders jolt, a sharp breath escaping. He’s turned away from me, but I read his body language…how he keeps yanking his head to one side, hoping to find me out of the corner of his eye. Anytime I try to lean forward, praying he can see me, Anton grips my hair, yanking me back. His hand roams higher.

Another strike. This one snaps across my husband’s lower back, curling cruelly toward his side. A welt swells almost instantly. The third lashes across the tops of his shoulders, the sting blooming red in its wake.

Still, Roman makes no sound other than his breath flaring through his nostrils. He’s so strong. He’s not even flexing his muscles. Relaxed. Because he knows the pain would be worse if he locks up.