Page 130 of Jewel of the Assassin

“Then…” Valentina lifts the blade, training the keen point along Selene’s bottom lip. Blood droplets fall from her golden hair, hitting my rapist’s face. “I don’t care if I retch doing this, I’ll simply vomit in your tongueless mouth while I take this knife—and I am going to jam it up your carrion whore cunt before I take it out and stab it right up your little pancake bitch ass!”

Fuck me six ways from Sunday.

She really means it.

And I just got a goddamn raging boner.

“Roman, darling?”

I kneel on Valentina’s other side. “It would be a pleasure, Moya Koroleva.” I steady my voice as though I am instructing a first-year apprentice and the woman who has sworn herself to me.

“First,” I murmur, tracing my fingertip just beneath Selene’s jawline, “you have chosen an exceptional dagger. A narrow, sharp blade is preferable—the tongue is a muscular organ, and resistance increases the deeper you cut. Broad knives tear. Yours will slice.”

Valentina rolls her eyes, but she tilts her head and grins, her violet eyes brighter than flaming amethysts. My clinical instructions will be a worthy balance to her visceral savage energy.

I draw a careful breath. “Next, incision begins here.” I guideValentina’s wrist lower, showing her the seam between the lips. “You cut cleanly across the frenulum, the small band anchoring the tongue to the floor of the mouth. It will bleed profusely. Expect a gurgling sound. Ignore it. Maintain your angle. You are not trying to kill her with this stroke. You are disarming.”

Her breath comes fast, but her grip does not falter.

“Is everything clear?” I murmur.

Valentina nods, steady, and I watch her take a deep breath. My chest swells, not just with pride, but with that dark, possessive arousal only she can stir in me. Everything she does is perfect, whether baking a perfect Baked Alaska or commanding a crowd just by walking into a room. And now—this.

She moves with precision, grace, and unflinching resolve. The first cut. Selene’s bloodcurdling screams rip through the chapel, bouncing off the stained glass and holy stone like a hymn from hell. Music to my ears.

When it’s done, Valentina exhales a long, trembling sigh of relief. With a careful hand, she places the severed tongue into my palm, her touch feather-light against my skin—as though she’s handing me something sacred.

“I hope you like your wedding gift, Moya Korona,” she whispers.

I close my hand around it. And God help me, I’ve never loved her more.

Selene has passed out. Also wetting herself.

On our right, Fleur appears, a twinkle in her eyes, a smile on her face. A glass jar in her hands, perfect for a scientific specimen to preserve.

“Aww, Fleur!” Valentina gushes and gets to her feet, leaning over to kiss our Queen of Flowers on the cheek. “What a wonderful wedding gift.” My wife twirls, splattering blood drops over Selene.

Fleur shrugs sweetly as Valentina hands the jar to me. I drop the tongue inside, seal it, and hand it back to Fleur, who skips away, showering more flowersupon the dead.

Valentina looks back at Selene with a snort. And swallows hard. The NSYNC song has ended. Silence thickens in the chapel, other than our heavy breaths.

“Do you require instructions for the next procedures, Valya?”

She shakes her head. “No. But I think I really will vomit.”

“Perfectly normal. I am here, whatever you need.”

I summon my digital chip and relay a text to Zina for the next song, also quite appropriate.

Valentina turns to me, her eyes overflowing with love as she blinks back tears. All I see is her. I mouth the opening words to Sting and the Police’s “Every Breath You Take”. A slow, intimate, and hypnotic rhythm. “I will be right here, Moya Samotsvet,watching you…”

Her hands shake as they pick up the dagger. “Would you mind shoving her thighs up to her chest?”

“Not at all.”

The others watch, a little shell-shocked, I’d say. Our fathers will be next. And we save the worst for last.

For now, I obey my wife, and there is a certain amount of…reclamation in gripping the legs of my rapist, of putting her on display for my wife to fulfill her bloody vow. A precursor of a bridal vow.