Chapter 43
“Learn what it is to unman someone.”
VALENTINA
Iremember that night…
Breathless from dancing the night away with every man I could damn well find—mostly to annoy my father—I steal away to a back hallway branching off the ballroom. I gather my gold skirts as I hurry, cheeks flushed, lungs heaving.
In the shadows, I lean against the wall, pressing out my chest as I tug at the corset strings, loosening them so I can finally exhale.
My virgin pussy may be promised to one of the Makarova sons—I forget which—but that doesn’t mean I won’t give hell in the meantime. Much to Father’s chagrin, Sasha and I bargained for twenty-five. I have six years. Six years until the wretched holy matrimony that will wrap chains around my throat.
I remove my mask. Father spared no expense with the amethyst and gold Venetian ensemble. But I drop it on the marble floor like it means little more than a pebble.
Half my breasts spill free now, and I can breathe.
It doesn’t wound Father too much that I am the shining belle of the ball.
After all, other powerful families will throw their offers into the pot, as if I’m some goddamn bride prize up for auction.
But the Makarovas are the only family as powerful as the Volkovs.
From the little knowledge I have, it’s due to the oldest brother, their assassin, spoken of only in hushed tones. I never see him at functions like this. So many rumors abound. Like he has left a trail of hundreds of bodies in his wake. And he wears a mask every time he commits a kill. Sounds sexy.
But I don’t give a fuck. After the past two years, dancing senselessly with any man I can find, I’m convinced not one could ever ravish me as I desire.
“You might take more caution with whom you choose to dance.”
The voice, low, velvety, and dangerous, overpowers the hallway; I’d swear the very walls shake. A deep Russian brogue.
I stiffen. But my blood ignites at the enthralling voice.
The moment he steps into view, my heart ricochets in my chest. He steals all my breath.
Every inch of him is impossibly taut, muscles prominent beneath that elaborate red suit—the kind that looks like fire and shadow.
Black leather gloves cling to his hands.
A sword in its scabbard brushes his thigh, and a cape drapes like liquid night from his shoulders.
His golden hair is bound high, flowing down his back in a flawless waterfall, and the skeletal gold mask only sharpens his edges, making him seem like a predatory warrior.
Here to lay siege and conquer a fortress.
I recall my earlier words. The masked assassin. I cast it aside. We are at a masked ball after all.
His eyes catch mine—emerald green, bright and untamed, slicing right through me. He inclines his head slightly, that casual air impossible to maintain against the feral focus in his gaze.
I tilt my head, matching his smirk. “Is that a warning or a threat, Sir?”
“Merely a statement of fact, Valentina Volkov,” he purrs, stepping closer so the scent of him coils around me.
I don’t flinch. Even if every word, every motion seems to strangle my pussy with heat, I don’t step back.
“They are all inferior, simpering fools who would never know how to cherish a woman of your…royalty.”
Desire and curiosity tighten deep in my core and chest, twisting my stomach and quickening my pulse. Turning my whole body to him, I set one hand on my hip. “Would you happen to know who is worthy, my masked phantom?”
His jaw tightens, muscles hardening. I take pride in his responses to me. Normally, I reduce men to shivering imbeciles. Or sloppy, wet messes of lust.
This stranger? I read the hunger in his being. But it’s controlled. It’s dominant. Oh, how I’ve longed for one man in my measly existence to dominate me in a way that would bring me to my knees. In force and submission at the same time. This man? He turns me inside out and upside down.
I’ve never felt more alive!
He advances to me. I still don’t move. Don’t flinch. It’s simply not in my nature. Rebellious, mad, wild, a force of nature. All descriptions applied to me, in mocking tones by my father and adoring but intimidated tones by Sasha.
The stranger invades my space. My blood thrills.
He is a head taller than me, overshadowing me, overthrowing me.
And then, he lowers his head, casting his breath through the mask along my face.
Oh, God, he smells like sin and leather, sweat and masculine musk.
Dominance incarnate. Don’t melt. Don’t melt. Don’t melt.
Planting his hands flat on the wall on each side of me, he drops his voice to a deep, gravelly tone, “The worthy one…only a man who would carve an empire from the earth itself could ever hope to match you. A queen. An unbreakable jewel.”
Too late. I’m a melted hot puddle on the floor.
“A kingdom for a queen?” I ask, leaning closer with a smile. “Then I hope the throne is as hot as the king who built it.”
He lowers his head, so close, I feel his breath on my face, the barest brushing of his lips on mine. I arch my back, chest rising. If I lift my chin by an inch, I’ll kiss him. But I won’t. Because I don’t want to be the first. I want to be ravished, dominated, won.
“I assure you, Valentina Volkov,” he murmurs, touching his lips to my brow in a tender kiss. “It will be.”
My core tightens, liquid heat gathering. But the impossible enigma before me retreats.
The next thing I hear is Sasha calling for me as his shadow appears from the other end of the hallway.
When I look back, the man in the gold skeleton mask is gone. And I’m left with a flood of emotion: dejection, terror, and feminine wrath. He’s left me with nothing but the scorch of his breath on my lips—a brand I will carry forever and a hunger no man will ever fill.
Above all: I swear, even in his absence, I could see it: the empire, the throne, the crown. Mine. My king. Forever.
I tell him of the memory. The one shining memory in the dark void of my past. Roman smiles down on me and tenderly kisses my brow again.
“I spent the next six years—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “Sasha and I arranged with my father—”
“No,” he interrupts this time and cups my chin, staring emerald daggers at me. “Me, Valya. The old contract, the original one I brokered with my father—before he chose Anton—I set the age at twenty-five.”
Stunned, I let out a long exhale. “Why?”
“So the kingdom would be ready for its queen. And so she would be ready for it. And you were, Moya Koroleva. From the moment you opened your eyes in my bed, you were our queen. My queen. My jewel—brighter than all the stars in the heavens.”
I grip the back of his neck and kiss him again, but it’s far briefer this time. Because I murmur against his lips with an eager grin, “It’s your turn, Moya Korona. Your song. For our fathers.” I gesture to the front row.
“Zina,” he says without breaking his gaze from mine. “Play ‘Sweet Dreams’.”
I groan, tipping my head back. “Why didn’t I think of that one?”
“Come, Moya Samotsvet.” He extends his arm, the black sleeve still wet with blood—just like mine.
We approach the front row, and I nod my gratitude to Sasha.
I sway along to the music and observe as my husband approaches his father first. My throat tightens with the reminder of Anton’s sickening punishment of forcing me down on his disgusting dick.
I fully intend to give Roman at least ten blow jobs in the next twenty-four hours until all I remember is the taste of his cum and the mold of his beautiful cock.
When Roman slams his father to the ground and puts his boot on the back of his neck, I flinch—in the most beautiful way. I glance at my father, rolling my eyes at how much he’s trembling because he knows his turn is soon. I’m surprised Anton hasn’t made a move, barely a muscle twitch.
My breath catches as Roman proceeds to strip his father, tearing away every piece of fabric until Nikolai is naked as a Russian mole rat.
Roman lowers his head, shadowing his eyes, before letting his voice cut through the noise like a blade.
“All of this—every sordid drop of blood I spilled, every empire I razed, every coin of gold minted in your filthy coffers—began with you. With your treachery. For six years, I fought for you. I destroyed small empires. I am the reason you became the greatest force of the underworld. By my hand, you profited. By my hand, you prospered. And how did you repay me? By stabbing that hand. By giving the woman I bled for, the woman I earned through sweat and souls, to your pampered, sniveling, bully-brat weakling of a son.”
Anton stiffens, and I mark him with sharp eyes, the kind that promises a storm.
Fleur takes a step toward me, smiles, and withdraws a length of thick rope from the black bag. Roman nods and accepts it, making quick work of binding his father to the nearest pew. Spread-eagled. Like serving him up on a silver platter.
Roman steps closer, his words like venom. “Valentina is mine. She is my Queen. And since you dared to defile her mouth with your filth, it will be her tongue that passes your sentence tonight.”
He locks eyes with me, and I lean into the wickedness and murmur in his ear with eager cruelty, “Would you do me the honor of teaching me how to perform a castration?”
Nikolai’s eyes widen to the bursting point, and…he loses all his piss.
Roman takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, speaking low and intimate, “On my honor, Moya Koroleva.”
We kneel together before the waste of space. I wrinkle my nose but take a deep breath, steadying myself, hoping I don’t retch again. Gripping the knife with my still bloody hand, I lower it to Nikolai’s flaccid dick.
Roman’s hand closes around my wrist before I can make the first cut. “Not there,” he murmurs, his voice as clinical as if he were correcting a child’s handwriting. “If you slip, he’ll bleed out too quickly. I want you to be precise.”
Nikolai writhes against his bonds, a gagged sob choking in his throat. Roman doesn’t so much as glance at him. His emerald eyes are fixed only on me.
“Look at me,” he instructs, angling the knife in my hand with unnerving calm. “This is delicate work. Do not let your hand shake.” He guides the blade lower, tracing a line in the air. “Here. That’s where you cut. A clean incision, straight down. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I swallow, my pulse hammering, but his hand steadies mine.
“Good girl,” he purrs, though his tone is still more scalpel than silk. “Once you expose him, you take the blade under. One swift motion. You sever the cords, not the flesh. Understand? Otherwise, it will be…messy.”
I can’t help but laugh softly. “Of course, you wouldn’t want to be messy.” I notice how even his bullets and knife cuts were cleaner, neater than mine. Like Michelangelo to my Jackson Pollock.
Nikolai screams against his gag as Roman angles my wrist. His mouth curves, cold and cruel.
“Don’t look at him. Look at me.” His gaze pins me in place, unblinking. “This isn’t about him. This is about you. About us. Our moment. Give me your hand until it becomes as sure as mine.”
His fingers press over mine, forcing the knife lower. “Now. Do it. Slowly. Learn what it is to unman someone.”
My fingers tighten around the hilt, following his exact instructions. I do it. The cords give beneath the blade. Nikolai’s gagged scream rips through the room. My arm trembles, my pulse pounds, but I do not falter.
Roman’s hands lift from mine. He steps back, eyes dark and calculating, assessing. And then…a small, sharp nod. His lips twitch into a near-smile, the first warmth breaking through the ice.
Nikolai has passed out.
“Exquisite,” Roman murmurs, voice low and dangerous, almost reverent. “As exacting as I imagined. You never cease to impress, Valentina. Perfect control, perfect execution. My hand would be proud.”
I grin at him. “I have many plans for that hand tonight, Roman.”
He matches my grin with a predatory one.
I lower the blade, heart hammering, sweat beading, and the muffled screams fade behind the hollow satisfaction of my success. His eyes linger on me in approval, admiration, and hunger.
I cradle the severed organ in my hands. Fleur waits nearby, jar at the ready, their fingers steady despite the gruesome task.
I step forward, and with Roman’s quiet nod, I place the organ inside.
They lift the jar like it’s a trophy. Their gaze flicks to Roman, then to me, with sweet and wicked amusement. Only them.
And just like that, the evidence of vengeance is contained, cataloged, and rendered almost ceremonious.
And now, I turn to my father.