Page 114 of Jewel of the Assassin

My breath heaves and cleaves as Sergei paces to the left, dragging the leather tip lazily along Roman’s spine before swingingagain—this time striking the backs of his thighs. Roman exhales through clenched teeth, refusing to bend.

His voice cuts through the snap of leather. “Want to know what kind of man your father really was?”

Sergei pauses mid-swing, breath quick.

What is Roman doing? My intestines twist.

At the barest side of his face, Roman’s smile turns to a one-sided blade. “Let’s just say he would’ve had a whole section in the Epstein files.”

Sergei removes his coat and unbuttons the collar of his shirt. His rhythm turns brutal. No part of Roman’s body is spared—not even the parts that make me gasp and choke back bile. He jerks against the chain after the first blow. I can’t breathe.

Every blow he takes means Anton won’t touch me tonight.

Roman’s gasps turn to shrieks. Sergei leaves him no dignity, no mercy. The bastard unleashes on my husband’s balls and dick, striking them again between hits to his buttocks.

I can’t sit still. My nails dig into Anton’s arm, and I turn and seethe, “Make it stop.”

He ignores me.

Roman’s body jerks again. Blood trickles down his thigh.

I twist in Anton’s lap, snapping and clawing at him. His nostrils flare. My glare burns. “Make it stop. Or I’ll?—”

His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so my neck strains. My back screams from the sharp agony. “You will what?” His breath is heat and whiskey. “You will do nothing. You will sit here, be a good bride, and watch me break your former husband like the cowardly bitch he is.”

“Says the real coward who won’t even get his hands dirty,” I spit, my voice shaking with rage.

His fingers wrap around my throat, squeezing. My vision pricks at the edges.

Then—

A touch on his arm. Light, but sharp enough to slice the air between us.

Roman’s mother stands there, poised in black silk, lethal green eyes cutting into Anton like they could strip the flesh from him. “You want a good show, my son?” she says, her voice velvet over steel. “He won’t be able to fight tomorrow in that condition.”

Anton flinches. Just barely.

The whip lands one last time before he stands, forcing me to rise with him, his voice thundering across the arena, “Enough!”

A groan ripples through the crowd.

“Thank you for attending,” he calls. His hand is still on my arm, but his grip loosens. “The next demonstration will be Saturday…followed by the wedding on Sunday.”

Cheers rise, ugly and eager.

My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach.

Roman hangs from the post, head bowed, shoulders heaving.

Roksana lowers her head. She doesn’t look at her son, but she flinches when his ragged cries cut through the air.

I swallow down the scream building in my chest because I know if I let it out, Anton will know he’s won.

“Wouldyou like to know why I am doing this, moya nevesta?” Anton croons above me.

He presses me into the mattress, my cheek against the cool silk sheets, the scarlet dress discarded somewhere on the floor. His weight pins me in place, knees straddling my hips. I curl my nose from the faint scent of antiseptic as he works, his hands full of meticulous purpose. A gentle sadist but a mocking one.

Nothing about this feels like aftercare.