Page 63 of Jewel of the Assassin

Then, she knocks it back in one smooth motion.

Arousing heat rushes through my veins. It’s not the vodka—I haven’t tasted mine yet. It’s her. The way she lifts her chin afterward, lips parted, eyes glassy from the burn. Bold. Daring. Effortless.

I clench my hands behind my back to keep from touching her.

“Oh—hell. That’s dangerous,” she exhales, fanning herself.

Levka beams like a proud father. “Exactly the reaction I was going for.”

“It tastes like… a burned love letter in the middle of a snowstorm,” she says, blinking through the sting. “I like it.”

I chuckle, downing mine. “This is why I married her.”

Levka bows dramatically. “Then I’ll bottle it in her honor. Lovers Vodka:The Valentina Vintage.”

She laughs and leans in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Levy. Can I call you Levy?”

“Only if I can call you Lady Val.” He gives her a flourishing bow.

She turns toward me. “Is he always like this?”

“Only on days ending in-y,” I deadpan. “I assume you have not yet made your daily visit to the greenhouse, Levka?”

Levka perks up. “My mushrooms! And ah!Fleur!She tends to my heart like I tend to the stills.”

Valentina blinks. “Fleur?”

I gesture to the staircase on the opposite side of the room. “Come. I’ll show you.”

Levka follows as we ascend into the west wing, where the warm humidity greets us before we reach the arched glass doors of the greenhouse. I open them and let Valentina step in first.

She gasps.

It’s a lush, living sanctuary. Vines coil from the rafters, roses burst in beds of velvet red, orchids hang like lanterns, and even the air smells floral, fresh, and faintly spiced. The greenhouse is cathedral-like in scope, with winding paths and hidden corners. Not one flower is neglected.

It is the softest place on the island—save for the woman trailing her fingers across a bloom.

“This,” I murmur, coming up behind her, “is Fleur’s domain. And if you’re lucky, you might meet them.”

A soft rustle draws my eye to the right.

From behind a thick line of hibiscus and foxglove, a head pops up—crowned with two perfect black pigtails like ink dripping down pale porcelain. Big black cat eyes blink at us. Fleur doesn’t speak, doesn’t wave. Just peers like a woodland creature, startled but curious.

A moment later, Levka sweeps to their side and kisses their cheek with a flourish. Smiling, Fleur tickles his ribs and boops his nose with a bright pink bloom.

“I was right!” Levka calls over his shoulder, cheerful as ever. “She/her pronouns today.”

As her partner, Levka is allowed to guess. Or predict, considering his shining accuracy.

Fleur beams. Her dress is a pale yellow, scattered with a soft, floral print. Her boots, however, are solid black and unlaced, as if they ground her whimsical presence in something sharper. She has always reminded me of a gothic wallflower—the contradiction of her dark aesthetic and dreamy silence, a sweet persona with dark secrets kept in a house of glass…

When I first met her,her name was Fyodor. He/him only, as birth dictated. It was during a political summit between Bratva rivals. I was undercover, waiting for a signal to eliminate one of the lesser lords—Pavel Mirov, a pompous swine with a taste for humiliation.

Fyodor was there, tending to the potted arrangements placed around the meeting room. Mirov noticed him. Decided he didn’t like the way Fyodor moved. Too graceful. Too gentle. Too…“off”.

He stuck out his cane and tripped him. Fyodor fell face-first into the soil he had so carefully planted. The room roared with laughter. Then Mirov stomped his neck into the dirt, muttering, “Fucking sissy boy. Can’t even stand like a man.”

That was all the signal I needed.