Page 72 of Jewel of the Assassin

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Oh, I’ll get it wet. Nice and wet.

VALENTINA

Three weeks later

Roman’s been gone seven days.

While my vagina has been healing quite nicely—eager, in fact, for his return—I’ve had to find creative ways to amuse myself. I spent an afternoon in the greenhouse after the night he left.

I apologized over and over to Fleur since we learned anything floral-related is apparently one of my rare “not-things”. Over-watering, under-watering, knocking over plants, including one that only blooms once every five years. Ouch. I couldn’t keep a plastic cactus alive if my life depended on it.

Levka insisted I sample all his new brews. I did. By the end, I’d passed out in the confessional, where I drunkenly spilled every one of my recent sins onto poor Mikhail. I’m fairly certain he’s still recovering.

And now, in the spirit of redemption—or perhaps boredom—I’ve decided to play matchmaker.

Zina and Mikhail have been driving me crazy. They bicker like an old married couple over everything. Zina attends every mass and makes excuses to go to the chapel three times a day. Sometimes just to bring him a meal. And don’t think I haven’t noticed Mikhail conveniently showing up in places where she is. I’ve giggled when he’s offered to take her confession, which she adamantly refuses—so he offers her a verse, and she shoos him along.

Even Shalun and Poppy seem to mirror the two of them, but the one time Poppy actually caught Shalun, all she did was bat at him playfully.

If Roman were here, I bet he’d try and stop me. But he’s not here. So fuck him.

The study is perfect—isolated enough that no one will interfere. And no windows. It’s cozy with a wall of books, dim lighting, and just one chaise lounge chair, other than the desk and its chair. I told Zina I broke a valuable item in here. Mikhail, I lured here with a handwritten note. Thankfully, he left Poppy behind in the chapel. And Shalun is taking his evening nap. Since it’s after dinner, and people are finishing their nightly chores and settling in, it’s the best time.

“I’m sure it’s nothing that cannot be repaired or replaced,” Zina says, her heels clicking crisply behind me before we enter the room. I overhear Mikhail’s boots thudding in from the opposite direction.

Perfect.

Zina glances back as he strides in, pausing at the sight of us.

She lifts a brow. “Did we call for a priest?”

I press my lips into a smile and shrug, offering the meager excuse, “If it’s so beyond repair or replacing, I figured a priest’s blessing might help.”

Zina sighs and rolls her eyes. “You will drive me to an early grave, milaya.”

Mikhail adjusts his collar and approaches. So far, they haven’t noticed the vodka bottle and the candles. “If I can be of service inany way to our lovely dama, I will aspire to be.” Yes, he’s taken up to calling me ‘lady’ in Russian.

“Da,” Zina agrees. “Where is it, child?”

“Over there.” I gesture to the bookcase.

As soon as they turn to the shelves, I scramble out of the room as fast as I can, shut the door, and twist the antique key in the lock.

Click.

A moment of silence.

“Valentina,” Zina calls, her voice sharp. “What are you?—”

“I’ll let you out,” I sing sweetly, “when the bottle is empty.”

There’s a pause. I imagine them staring at the heavy wooden table with the hundred-year-old bottle of Roman’s favorite vintage vodka, along with two crystal tumblers and two candles with a single match.

“This is outrageous!” Zina shouts before unleashing a string of colorful Russian curses. “Open the door this very second, Valentina Makarova.”

My laugh practically sparkles. “That’s my name, yes. And since my dear husband is not around, you must follow my command. Besides, you really have no choice. Oh, by the way,” I stop them before they can get any ideas. “If you pour it on the floor,” I add, crouching to speak through the small hatch, “I’ll know. And I’ll tell Roman you dumped his irreplaceable vodka from 1902.”