Page 6 of Jewel of the Assassin

Sasha steps closer, his hand resting on my shoulder, a gentle weight against the crushing force of expectation. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me through the mirror as I stand there in this grotesque wedding gown, all silk and suffocation.

“You still look beautiful, Valya,” he finally murmurs.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “If I wanted to look like a human chandelier, sure.”

His lips twitch, but there’s no real amusement. I know this is killing him too.

I glance away from the mirror, heart plummeting. “I can’t do this.”

Sasha sighs. “You don’t have a choice.”

There it is. The truth, sharp as an unforgiving blade. I swallow hard, because panic is weakness, and my father exploits weakness.

I turn, forcing a smirk. “You sure about that?”

Sasha stiffens. “Valentina?—”

Turning away from the 360-mirror, I hoist up the heavy gown and try to step down from the pedestal. I’m normally graceful and light-footed, but with all the heavy layers of tulle, I stumble, grateful when Sasha catches me.

He’s right. But it doesn’t mean I won’t fight like hell. Might as well show the Makarova boys what this Volkov girl is made of. I may be half Russian, but we are known for our resilience, our independence. And passion.

I’ve trained for this my whole life. The perfect marriage of power and control. But damn it all. I’m still angry. Angry that I don’t get to choose. Angry that my father fated me for this. This isn’t about me. It never was.

I’m fully prepared, knowing Anton will fuck me tonight. But every smile will be another weapon. Fuck pulling his puppet strings. I’ll cut my own and get the fuck out as soon as possible, knowing Sasha will help. The last thing I’ll be is an incubator for that goddamn playboy.

After I request some “alone time”, Sasha kisses my cheek and departs. As soon as he closes the door, I’m gone, my gown a storm of fabric trailing behind me as I slip through the door and into my bedroom. The moment it clicks shut, I hike up the skirt. The bedroom window looms ahead—double-paned glass, but the latch is simple.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the sight of the wilting purple roses. Hissing through my teeth, I rush for the secret place in my mattress, snatch up the black pearl choker, and shove it into one of the deep pockets of the gown.

Hell, it can be my “something borrowed”.

It might be a lost cause, but maybe he’s watching. My stalker. If he is as resourceful as getting all those notes to me and the flowers, he must know what today is.

He’s my last hope. I should slap some sense into myself. A stalker is my last hope.

“What the hell are you thinking, Valentina?” I mutter as I shove open the window.

Cold air rushes against my overheated skin, offering relief. The drop is far enough that a misstep could break an ankle. I don’t think about it. I grip the windowsill and swing my legs over.

“A stalker could strangle you,” I go on, “carve his initials into your ribs, and drop your body into an iceberg.” I climb more, gripping the wall sconces, lantern mounts, and even the trellis. Shaking my head with a laugh, I snort. “That still sounds like a better wedding night than Anton.”

The night is dark, the wind biting my bare arms. To my left, the cliff drops steeply toward the churning black sea. To my right, the dark forest is endless.

He’s out there. I know he is.

My stalker—the one who’s made me feel more alive than ever—he’s a ghost, a threat, a promise. And I need him.

I grip the rough stone, my fingers aching. Every shift of fabric, every scrape of my heels against the stone sends my heart slamming against my ribs. My breath is fast, desperate.

I hit the ground and gather my wits.

If I were a stalker, where would I be?

Gripping my gown ruffles, I kick off my heels and lunge for the woods. Freedom is right there. Just a little farther?—

Until strong hands clamp around my waist.

I cry out as I’m wrenched backward until I’m forced to turn. A security guard’s face looms over me, impassive.