Page 9 of Jewel of the Assassin

She’ll push back. She’ll question. She’llfightme. And I wouldn’t want it any other way. That’s Valentina—proud, fierce, unwilling to be claimed without a battle.

Her brows draw in as confusion flickers. “This…is mine?”

I step in, voice low and smooth. “Of course, My Queen.” Then lift a cursory brow. “Do you disapprove?”

She leans slightly, blinking, then shakes her head. “It’s beautiful. The room is beautiful.”

Beautiful and strong. And deadly. I had this suite rebuilt with triple-layered, weather-sealed ballistic glass. Titanium alloy frames anchor it into the cliffside, hidden beneath polished steel and imported wood.

Even the vents and insulation are modified for arctic conditions. When the Bering winds scream and the sea rages, this room stays silent, warm, untouched.

And of course—discreet security cameras and motion sensors are embedded into the design, invisible to the untrained eye. Nothing enters or leaves this suite without me knowing.

She’s safe. Safe, mine, and sealed inside a fortress I built for her.

She frowns. “I don’t recognize it.” Then, her gaze locks back on me. “Who are you?”

We met long ago, masked, but my Valentina is sharp and shrewd. My father didn’t disguise me from our familial portraits. She should have some awareness.

“You were in a car accident,” I say, my voice soothing and calm. “But you are safe now, maya Valya.”

“Is that my name?” she asks shyly, uncertain. Her brows furrow, and she stares at me, waiting.

The question catches me off guard. My breath stutters, chest tightens. I glance toward the doctor standing near the door, then back to her. I give the doctor a hard look—a silent command for answers.

The doctor shifts uneasily, clearing his throat. “Roman, ifyou’ll step into the hall for a moment.” He gestures, and I follow him outside.

“I will be back soon. Rest,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face with gentle fingers.

In the hallway, the doctor’s expression turns clinical. “Based on my initial assessment, she is suffering from retrograde amnesia. Memory loss related to the trauma. It’s common in severe emotional shock cases.”

My emotions riot. A memory loss.

I rub my temple, holding back my irritation. “Will she get her memories back?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s unpredictable. Memory can return gradually or in fragments. It might take days, weeks…or longer. Some memories might never come back.”

I grit my teeth. There’s no time for uncertainty. “What about testing? Observation?”

He nods. “We’ll need to run a battery of neurological and psychological tests. But it’s best to monitor her first, see how she responds to stimuli and therapy.”

I say nothing. In the silence, somethingdarkerunfolds inside me.

What if they don’t come back? What if the slate stays clean?

She has no memories of her father. No memories of the cage he built for her. No memories of her arranged fate.

But she’s here. In my home. In my bed. Wearing my ring.

This could work.

I breathe, slow and deliberate. For the first time in days, the chaos recedes. This may be a gift.

The doctor continues, “There are some cognitive techniques and pharmaceutical protocols that can?—”

“No,” I cut in, voice firm. “No tests. No drugs. Not unless her health demands it. I want observation only. Physical wellness is the priority. Not memory recovery.”

“You understand that?—”