Page 59 of Jewel of the Assassin

I gasp awake,stirring from the dark and disturbing dream.

It’s still dark. And the bed is cold. Roman isn’t here.

My spine prickles with icy fear and hot frustration at the space where he should be. Shaking off my misplaced need, I reach for the journal he brought me the day after he fucked the living hellout of me. It’s beautiful. Black leather. Gold-tipped pages. My initials in bold red colors on the front.

Picking up the pen, I write down the dream. It was the strongest memory so far. My very heart shudders.

Slowly, I turn to the previous page where I’ve marked other notes, memories, glimmers.

A comfortable warmth helps thaw the chill in my blood.

Sasha. He has dark hair. Our wounds match. A small corner in the library. I lean on his shoulder while we drink vodka. Our relationship is platonic, familial.

Other random memory shards curl in my mind.Of playing piano till my fingers bled, dancing at parties like a golden siren, where my father let me show off. An envied princess.

I press my lips into a firm line when I eye the other page.

A wine cellar. Ropes bind me to the support beam. A cane hit my back. Again and again. I spit fire the whole time.

I flip to another page.

The barest image of black pearls. Violet petals. And my gold dress slipping from my shoulders to pool on the floor.

And notes.

I remember notes written in flawless calligraphy. Short and deadly sweet. Possessive. The kind Roman would write.

But nothing of the past two years with him. No memories of walking the halls of this manor. No memories of him fucking me in this bed. No memories of Zina or Mikhail or any of the staff I’ve met. It’s like the past two years haven’t existed.

I turn to the very back page, peel the end where I’ve cunningly hidden one significant question on a small piece of paper. An invisible fist grips my lungs.

Is Roman Makarova my husband?

When the door clicks, I secure the pasted end page. I don’t pretend to be asleep. I just hold the journal in my lap and lean back against the pillow, sighing as the man of the moment sweeps into the room.

“Ahh, Valya, you’re awake,” he says, one hand in the pocket ofhis casual black slacks, the other calm at his side. He looks like sin. A white collared shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, throbbing with virile blood.

Roman may be thirteen years older than me, but he fucks like a ruthless beast who breaks and worships all in one. His deep chest with broad shoulders, chiseled features, and the perfect spill of his blonde hair in his low ponytail all conspire to heat my blood. Somehow, sculpted and rugged have collided to create the god before me. Eyes like hypnotic green jewels.

My heart rate spikes and my inner muscles tighten at his presence. He was right. My body, my soul, could never hope to forget him.

When I lift my eyes to his, he’s smirking because he caught me eye-fucking him.

Roman makes his way toward me, nodding at the journal. “Another dream?”

I lower my head and quietly say, “A nightmare.”

“Fuck.” He sighs heavily and crosses the space between us. I don’t flinch when he sits on the bed and draws my chin to him. “What do you need, Moy Samotsvet? I apologize for my absence. But I am here now. The day is yours. Whatever you desire.”

He leans closer, voice dipping into a sinful whisper. “If you want to stay curled up in bed watching those ridiculous horror flicks, I’ll hold you and feed you popcorn kernels one by one. If you’d rather take an extended tour of the manor and meet the remaining staff, I’ll be at your side. Or…”

His lips ghost the shell of my ear, and I shiver.

“I could take you up to the cliffs and fuck you until the sea itself remembers you screaming my name.”

I don’t pull away when his lips meet my neck, but I do clutch the journal tighter and squeeze my thighs before the urge to hump him overwhelms me.

“What about a combination?”