Chapter 38
“Seems my bride needs to be taught a little lesson.”
ROMAN
Her scent drifts through the door.
All my muscles flex as my spine straightens. The lash marks scream like sharp, flaming knives. It’s only been two days, but they still hurt like the devil.
But none of it matters. Not when she tiptoes into the dungeon, leaving the door slightly ajar.
God, the sight of her makes it hard to breathe.
But I still tip my head back and inhale a deep breath of her perfume, the kind she has made.
Midnight saffron and smoldering musk, the black hemlock, opium, and the dark promise of something unseen.
Unseen freedom. The promise we both cling to.
“Esli ya znaio, chto takoe lyubov, to tolko blagodarya tebe,” I say as she approaches the cell, not daring to look at her yet. Not ready for my chest to cave in, for her to unravel me.
“What does that mean?” she asks softly her voice….weak.
“If I know what love is, it is only because of you, Moya Samotsvet.”
“We don’t have long. Zina…she managed to create a diversion with Shalun in the security room, and Levka handled the guard with his mushrooms, and your mother is waiting for me. More people are coming every day, and—”
“Valya.”
Now, I look.
I see beyond her beauty, beyond the gold dress she’s donned for me, displaying her crown brand—as if she’s trying to prove she is still my queen, my jewel.
Гавно! It’s the first time I haven’t seen her lift her chin. It’s the first time her posture looks defeated, her eyes filled with regret, shame, guilt.
“What did he do?” I growl.
She breaks. Bloody Christ, she crumbles to the floor, her trembling hand reaching for mine through the bars. I strain until the chains bite into my wrists, cursing the heavens when only an inch of air remains between us. I cannot give her my strength. I cannot give her anything.
“Roman.” Her voice splinters, torn in half by her sobs. “I’m sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known he was manipulating me.”
“Valentina.” I summon her, my tone sharp, commanding—the one she knows belongs only to me.
And just like that, a fragile light pierces my chest. Hope. Pride. She lifts her chin, eyes locking with mine through the veil of tears. She still answers when I call. She still bends to me. Still gives me her surrender. And it’s enough to goddamn wreck me.
“Eyes on me, Valentina. Listen well. You never apologize. You are not to blame. Not for any of it. You will not carry the weight of my brother’s sins, nor mine.
He can claim our bodies—our flesh, our blood—but he will never own our hearts.
And our souls, Valentina Makarova…our souls are already one. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Horosho devochka.”
She wipes her tears away, touches the bar, and raises her chin. Da, there is my Koroleva. I keep one hand braced on my thigh, the other open, fingers curled, imitating the act of holding her hand. Her left hand mirrors mine.
And then? She breaks open, spilling everything. Every word about two nights ago—what my brother did, what he took—sets my blood ablaze.
For God’s sake! “I’ll carve out his tongue, his eyes, Valya,” I vow. “I’ll break his nose and jaw. Leave nothing but his ears so he can hear you scream while you’re riding my dick—on his dying, worthless, goddamned corpse.”
“I’d like that.” A flush heats her cheeks, and she…
fucking smiles. A soft smile. One with a hint of sorrow.
Fuck, it carves me open like a cold blade.
“Zina and Mikhail and I…we’ve tried so many things, but we can’t find a way to break free.
Not without endangering everyone else. I don’t know what to do, Roman.
I do-don’t kn-know what to do.” She buries her head in her hands.
Not in defeat or sorrow. No, I read the infuriation from her digging her nails into her scalp.
“I am to blame for all of this,” I tell her. “You have every right to hate me.” I lower my head.
“Roman Makarova.”
Her tone is like silk-wrapped steel. No, harder.
She’s a goddamn diamond. My Jewel levels me with her gaze.
No hint of softness. Just pure-driven grit worthy of an empress.
Gripping the bars with both hands, she hisses, “You listen and you listen well. I could never hate you, Moya Korona. You took me from purgatory. You gave me a family, a home, a kingdom. From the second I woke up, and you put the ring on my finger, I was yours. You called me your Queen that first day, that first hour. It just took a little time before I knew you were mine.”
One side of my mouth tugs into a smile. “When did you know, Valya?”
She blushes more, so lovely, so exquisite. My bride forever.
“Maybe when you saved me from the landmine and fucked me boneless. Or the time I stabbed that miserable piece of shit trespasser to death, and you caught me red-handed.” Her laugh sparkles.
How I’ve missed that laugh. “But no. It was after the trespasser. In the hot spring. When you called me your soul.”
“Da, muzh - golová, zhená - dushá.” Husband is the head, the wife is the soul.
She still has every right. The right to share my pain, to suffer with me. The right to protect me. She is my divine right…in everything.
“I’ve missed you so much. That night feels like a lifetime ago.” She curls her hand through the bars again.
“Valya, Koroleva, Samotsvet. Klyanus’, ya ne mog by lyubit’ tebya bol’she, chem lyublyu seichas, no znayu, shto budu tochna tak zhe lyubit’ tebya zavtra.”
Her tears are the worst possible torture when she gazes at me and says, “I love you, Roman. Nothing, no one can ever take that away.”
“No, but I will be taking you away now, my naughty bride,” Anton’s voice cuts through our moments, shattering them.
My jaw turns to iron, my muscles bulging steel as he strolls into the dungeon without a care in the world. Dark hair slicked back, dressed in one of my fucking power suits, and his hands slapping his black leather gloves against his palm.
All the blood drains from my wife’s face. Terror in her eyes. But it wars with rage.
“Come now, moya novesta,” he croons, lowering one hand to her cheek.
I read her body language. I know what’s coming. Pride fills my chest. Her strength spears through me the moment she bites his hand. Hard enough to make him howl. Hard enough to draw blood.
He’s still roaring when he calls for the guards. Two enter, and Anton barks orders. Valentina grips the bars with everything she has.
“Roman, I’m Valentina Makarova, your Valentina,” she says as they haul her away, kicking and screaming. “What did it mean, Roman? What did it mean?”
“Valya!” I lunge just as the door slams shut.
Anton flexes his ailing hand while appraising me, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll turn her into a doting wife soon enough. Or I’ll find endless ways to torture you both.”
“You will spend endless nights losing sleep, Anton, wondering if it will be your last when you find her wrapping a noose around your throat.” I lean back against the stone wall, musing, mocking. “Or stabbing you through the heart. Or a bullet to the brain. After all, my wife is a crack shot.”
“She can try. I will thoroughly enjoy cracking my whip when she does,” he fires back, his dark eyes sharpening on mine. “Do get some rest, brother. You have a big night ahead of you.”
The dungeon door groans shut behind him. But I do rest. Filled with more hope and power from her presence, I close my eyes. I’ll need every drop tonight.
And in the isolation and darkness, I murmur the meaning of the old Russian quote I spoke to her. “I swear I couldn’t love you more than I do right now, and yet I know I will tomorrow.”
I imagine it like a whisper, traveling until it finds her—and gives her as much hope and power as she has me.
I’m dragged through the snow and mud back into the ring again.
The marks on my back still feel like fiery lashes.
The crowd is just as ruthless, whole rows of bodies leaning closer, on the edge of their seats, waiting. Waiting for my blood to spill.
I envision spilling their blood. No mercy. I’ll make it last. Make it hurt. Make them bleed out slowly until their souls are washed down the drain.
Godfuck, there’s my father sitting next to Anton’s throne. In my goddamn office chair! Son of a bitch peddled me out for years, doing all his dirty work. And now, he’s leering down at his own son, marking my eyes for a grave.
I don’t give a fuck how many blows I take. Every lash, every hit has her name on them. And I vow to whatever gods are listening: Anton will die with me writing my name in his chest—with his own intestines.
Snow drifts down from the sky like a curse, promising ice and wrath.
My blood boils at the sight of my brother practically dragging my wife onto the platform, clothed in a purple dress this time. It’s barely a transparent scrap.
The violence stokes me, fuels me with an adrenaline high, preparing myself. I rock on the balls of my feet, bracing my fists, jaw hard, spine harder.
Anton stands from his golden throne, the crowd’s noise fading until only the wind and his voice fill the arena.
“Last time, you all enjoyed watching my dear brother break his oldest friend. Tonight,”—he sweeps an arm wide—“I bring you something even better. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh.” His grin glints like a blade.
“Tell me, Roman…who do you think I’ve sent to you now? ”
Bloody Christ, no…
My chest tightens. I search the shadows. Then I see her.
The breath leaves my lungs in a violent rip.
Valentina lurches, her hands flying to her mouth, terror in her eyes.
Roksana Makarova. My mother. She walks slowly into the ring, her black coat billowing like a specter’s robe. The same woman who taught me how to breathe steady before a kill, how to disappear into shadow, how to slit a throat without spilling a drop on my shoes.