Page 136 of Jewel of the Assassin

My mother stiffens, gasping. “Good God, milaya, I am Russian. We do not hug.”

“Oh, you do today,” Valentina insists, crushing herself tighter against her.

My mother smiles as she wraps her arms around my wife.

Valentina pulls back, hiccuping on her tears, and wipes at her face. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotten blood all over you.”

Roksana waves a gloved hand dismissively. “It’s not the first time.” Then, curling her lip in disgust, she flicks her eyes toward Anton. For one charged beat, she and I share a look—somethingdeeper than words, forged from loss and survival and impossible reunion.

“How?” My voice is rough, barely steady.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Fleur—our Fleur—hovering with a black satchel in hand, giving a shy little wave.

Roksana glances toward them. “Anton’s men were about to toss my body into the Bering Strait. I was near death, moy syn. You did well. But the body is capable of much when driven by will and heart. I snapped their necks before I fell. I thought it was my last breath…until dear Fleur found me. She and her miracle plants saved me. Is itshetoday?” Roksana double-checks.

Fleur nods gently, confirming the change. Always fluid.

Valentina breaks into fresh tears and rushes to her, burying her face in Fleur’s neck. Fleur seems stunned at first, but lets the satchel drop and embraces her.

When my wife pulls back, sniffing, she looks down. “What else is in the bag, Fleur? Other than our trophies, of course.”

Fleur opens it just slightly. I can’t see from where I stand, but I don’t need to. Valentina’s hands fly to her mouth, her chest heaving with a gasp. Then she touches her heart with a dramatic flourish, her bloody face radiant through tears.

“Fleur! There simply aren’t words.”

The cross wasValentina’s diabolical idea.

After all, she couldn’t let Fleur steal all the thunder of inspiration, given the exquisite torture in her black bag.

I step back, hands folded behind my back, my gaze sweeping over the chapel. It has transformed into a mass graveyard of corpses, the faint scent of rigor mortis curling in the air. But Mikhail lit some of the candles, which creates an ironic paradox of romance within the carnage.

All the others have gathered in the front row for the ceremony. Even Zina, who still holds a tablet that controls the music.

The cross rests atop the altar, its vertical and horizontal beams stark against the candlelight. Anton is bound to it in a perfect cruciform posture, limbs stretched, head hanging slightly forward. The barbed wire bites into his wrists and ankles, pulling taut, lacerating him as he struggles.

With Fleur’s precious jar in one hand, Valentina moves around him like a feline predator, inspecting her handiwork, her fingers brushing his form. Her eyes gleam with anticipation and something fiercer—justice, reclamation, and raw delight.

I can’t help but admire her brilliance, her twisted mind of turning this from punishment into a ritual.

And as I stand there, watching her, I know we are not simply seizing vengeance. We are rewriting our scars, reshaping every wound into a testament of our power.

“Valentina.” I take her by the wrist, bringing her closer, admiring her depth of character and the utter, unfiltered, and unconditional love in her gaze. “We are going to make this last all night, Moya Samotsvet. We will write a new script for our lives. We will not stop until the blood dries on our clothes. And once dawn arrives, I will fuck you on my brother’s corpse. Is that understood?”

With an outpouring of a smile I don’t deserve, Valentina stands on her tiptoes, kisses me something sweet and brief, then says in broken Russian, “Klyanus’, ya ne mog by lyubit’ tebya bol’she, chem lyublyu seichas, no znayu, shto budu tochna tak zhe lyubit’ tebya zavtra.”

I chuff a laugh and crook my smile. “I swear I couldn’t love you more than I do right now, and yet I know I will tomorrow.”

The perfect quote for the moment.

“You go first, Roman,” she tells me.

“Weak little blyad. Fucking bitch!” Anton spits at my wife.

I bring my hand down in a solid strike that snaps his head. “You are about to become our bitch, brat.”Brother.

Valentina clasps her hands, tilts her head, and lifts her brows. “What song, Roman? What song?!”

I press my lips into a fervent grin. “I believe I will invoke the title of Moya Koroleva. And select the song that can summon three generations.” Without looking away from the jewel of my soul, I direct, “Zina, play Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’.”