Page 74 of Jewel of the Assassin

A twig snaps behind me. My spine locks up, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Hand twitching, I slowly move it toward the dagger in my belt. A little something I’ve kept in Roman’s absence. With him, I could walk into a den of wolves and feel safe. But without him…

Then, I hear it. Rustling in the patch of nearby woods. I squint, trying to make out anything between the silhouetted trees. There are only a couple of dim lanterns at each cemetery entrance. I’m keenly aware of my vulnerable position, especially with this white coat.

I tell myself it’s the groundskeeper. But they always do their work early in the morning. Hope sparks as I wonder if it could be Roman, but he wouldn’t take this route. Not behind the manor. He always loves to make an entrance.

Fear ices my blood, and I bolt, running for the side gate exit of the cemetery that leads to the conservatory. Boots thud rapidly behind me, kicking up more dried leaves. I run faster, praying the conservatory door isn’t closed. Heavy breaths pursue me, body heat closing in. I don’t get past the next tree before one strong hand grabs my arm, twisting it sharply while the othergets my hair, yanking me hard. My back collides with a muscled chest.

“Ow—fuck!” I shriek, but the cry is cut off by the barrel of a gun pressed against my neck, the cold metal kissing a threat. I freeze.

“Now, now, dorogaya,” the man coos in my ear, thick Russian. Oh, that bastard did not just call me ‘sweetheart’. “Make one more sound, and I’ll paint the snow with your pretty little skull.”

The gun doesn’t move. Neither does he, apart from one arm around my waist. He’s too calm for someone holding a weapon. Too collected. Like he’s done this before. Like he enjoys it. My heart hammers as he lowers his voice, “You scream, you run, you even breathe wrong, and I swear, sweetheart, no one’s finding enough of you to bury. Now…where is your boss?”

“Myboss?” I seethe through clenched teeth. Does he seriously think I’m the help? Inthisgoddamn coat?

“Roman Makarova,” he spits the name like it’s poison.

“He’s not here.”

The gun presses harder, and I gulp.

“Lie to me again, and I’ll?—”

“Myhusbandis not home!” I emphasize without hesitation.

Better to let him know exactly who I am and the status I hold. The last thing I want is for him to shoot me and move on, thinking I’m no one important.

The man pauses and…oh, hell, Roman will cut off his hand for this and watch him bleed out while we kick back vodkas. I wince, acid splashing in my throat as the trespasser paws at my chest.

“Nice, very nice.” He cups my left tit, and I almost regret wearing something so low-cut, since he gets a good half-cup handle. “What? Roman’s latest whore playing house?”

“Try his queen, motherfucker,” I snarl, hoping he doesn’t notice how much my hands are trembling. “Now, get your filthy hands off me before I bite your fingers off one by one.”

He lowers his hand—aka future bloodied stump—and spins me around, gun still trained on me. Young—probably not much older than me—but he’s built like a soldier, all broad shoulders and brute muscle. A winter cap covers most of his head, but dark curls peek out around his neck. Rugged. Harshly handsome. Russian to the bone.

“Bloody Christ.”

Everything changes. Shock etches his features. He blinks a few times and scrubs a hand down his face before staring at me again. His brows lower, and his eyes gleam with undeniable lust.

“Well now, the bastard has balls, I’ll give him that.” He chuckles, and the sound twists my insides. “Valentina Volkov herself,Princessof the Alaskan Peninsula.”

Volkov. The name itches at my memory, but I still don’t know it.

“I’m ValentinaMakarova,” I insist, raising my chin, head held high.

“Of course you are.” His grin is sadistic. “Kakoye naslazhdeniye.” I don’t know what it means, but I can tell by the way he’s licking his lips. “So, the man of the hour is not here. Do you know when he will return?”

I snort. “He didn’t exactly give me his itinerary.”

“Well then, I’m certain he will make a quick return once he learns I have his prized princess in my possession.”

Great. I’m bait.

“Queen,” I correct him again.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare him down with all the feminine savagery. “And what’s to stop me from screaming?”

He tilts his head and cocks the gun. “Live or dead bait, I don’t rightly care, sweetheart. He will come regardless. But it doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun in the meantime. If you’re a good girl, I’ll make sure you’re alive and warm and breathing when he does arrive.”