Page 137 of Jewel of the Assassin

“Oh, God, I am so fucking hot and wet for you right now,” Valentina gushes before doing a twirl, jar still in hand.

“Save that fire, my Jewel. At dawn, the best is yet to come.”

45

We are so going to hell for this.

VALENTINA

The church vibrates with the booming, stomping rhythm ofWe Will Rock You.

Sasha, Roksana, Levka, Fleur, Zina, and Mikhail all clap, and the bass hammers through my chest like a drumbeat of justice.

The altar glows under the dim chandeliers, sacred turned sinister. Anton is trying so hard to wear defiance like armor.

Roman’s steady, warm hand brushes mine. I focus on Roman, on his sharp and commanding eyes as he holds two jars. One crawls with fire ants, the other writhes with cockroaches.

“Choice is yours,” he says, his voice low, clinical. “Crown or core—where will your wrath fall?”

Tonight, we are cleansing through fire and blood. The answer is clear. My fingers curl around the jar of fire ants. Crown.

Fleur’s greatest gift is possibly her attention to detail. Sometimes, I wonder if she has always kept these jars on hand. UnlikeLevka, who wears everything on the surface, so much of Fleur is hidden.

I smile to myself because I could imagine her having some secret laboratory, a hidden passage in the dungeon perhaps, where she keeps all her insects. Or anything else.

Straightening my shoulders, I move toward Anton. With every step, it feels like I am shedding the weight of years, the weight of torment and trauma. My hands no longer tremble—they are steady, guided by the fire inside me.

“You will never be rid of me,” Anton snarls. “Neither of you. I will haunt you in your nightmares for the rest of your pathetic lives.”

I grin down at him and trace a line from his chest all the way down to his flaccid cock. In between the beats of the song, I coo, “Oh, I am counting on it, Anton. Because I will hear your screams in my dreams. I will treasure them. And then, I will rise with the sunrise every morning and forget the air you ever breathed.”

With the narrow tube swarming with fire ants, I take Anton’s dick and nudge the needle into the urethra.

Roman tilts his head, a slow, approving nod. Anton flinches, tries to thrash, but the barbed wire holds him in place.

“Good. Steady hand. Precise placement,” Roman says. “Control him. And ease the needle in slowly and surely.”

His instructions are measured, detached, like a surgeon guiding a novice. But I feel everything. To me, it feels like a ceremony, a sacred ritual. Anton grits his teeth, tries to keep his body hard, tries to maintain bravado, but I see the cracks forming in his mask.

I’ve never felt prouder. Every jagged edge of my broken self aligns here, piercing through the darkness to find light. The disgust, the anger, the stolen pieces of my dignity, my identity—they all converge, and I hold them like weapons.

The music pounds on, the rhythm echoing in the high arches. Every stomp and clap fuels me, and I feel Roman’s gaze on me—not just watching, but honoring. I am taking back what was mine, piece by piece, and my husband is right there beside me, making sure I see the beauty in my revenge. Our revenge.

I am no longer fractured. I am whole in this moment, fierce and untouchable.

Anton squirms. His defiance falters.

“Our scars are not chains,” Roman echoes.

The first scream. It tears from Anton’s throat from the red tide flowing into his fragile flesh. His body thrashes, betraying his agony. Sweat coats his skin, his dark strands clinging to his cheeks.

Now, it’s Roman’s turn.

“Any songs you desire, Moya Samotsvet?”

I twist my lips into a smirk, having already given my next one consideration. I clasp my hands, placing them on my mouth with an utterly wicked energy. “I believe it would a true crime if we didn’t play “Takedown” by HUNTR/X.”

“Mmm, KPop Demon Hunters. I approve.” He winks.