Book Excerpt: The Thief Prince’s Wife By Noor Juman

The Thief Prince's Wife is a novel by Noor Juman, focusing on Payal Lohani, who enters an arranged marriage with Oleksiy Karmazin, the son of a Ukrainian mafia kingpin, to escape an attempt on her life. The marriage is initially intended as a business arrangement, with both parties agreeing to a facade of respect but no love, as Payal needs to protect her past connections.

Here's an excerpt from Noor Juman's The Thief Prince's Wife 

Oleksiy didn’t know where his legs were taking him, or how long he’d been out wandering the windy streets of Brooklyn. All he knew was he couldn’t go back to the apartment.

He’d been so focused on escaping the black whirlpool out in the big bad world, he’d been blind to the one yawning open in his own home. What he had with Payal was too good to be true. Of course it was. Nothing could be that perfect.
  
Just like his friendship with Ruslan. There was always a catch.
 
The gall of her to throw his past in his face like that. Oleksiy had shared that part of his life with her in a sacred act of trust, and she’d weaponised it against him.
 
Fragments of their fight bombarded his thoughts like relentless waves of shrapnel. Her face flashed before his eyes. The imploring looks, the hiccuping breaths, the glistening eyes, the hurt, the anger and indignation— they lost their notes of insincerity the longer he dwelled on them. There were fleeting moments she didn’t look anything like the conniving actress she really was.
 
The abomination, having taken full control of him, was quick to quash such notions. She didn’t look the scheming temptress precisely because she was so good at being one. How else did he think she kept her true colours hidden so long?
 
Fine droplets of freezing rain drew him out of his thoughts and made him take his bearings. He’d made it all the way out to the outskirts of Brooklyn College’s campus. A short walk away from Bulletproof Comics.
 
Walking the familiar route he’d taken countless times as a kid, he stood across the street from the comic book store, staring at the storefront with the same blue canopy topped with the same giant yellow letters as nearly two decades ago.

The abomination made kindling of the sight, used it to warm his frigid insides. It reminded him of the friendship he’d lost. The lover after it. Then the wife who was friend and lover rolled in one. The incandescence roiling through him coaxed his muscles to relax. Seeped into all the empty crevices once occupied by hope and goodwill and happiness.
  
It was a sensation he knew well, its familiarity oddly comforting.
 
That gave him pause. Made him shut out the abomination’s dogged proclamations that this was good, this was how it was supposed to be.
  
Why was he here at this time of the night, basking in self-pity? Who did that?
 
Marisha was right—he was a pissbaby. And Payal . . . 

She’d been dishonest with him. He had every right to be upset with her. But maybe, just maybe, she was right about his privilege. Maybe he was so privileged, so keen to be righteous that he zealously courted victimhood.

Maybe he was incapable of understanding what drove people to make amoral decisions.
 
And maybe Payal was telling the truth about not being a Berezivka spy.

How could she be? Mykola kept him informed on all her whereabouts. If she was passing on information to the Berezivkas, making suspicious detours, being evasive about who she spent time with, Oleksiy would have known. As for information, what information? When she wasn’t at school, she was at home studying or spending time with him. Besides, she never showed much interest in the intricacies of Kotovsk affairs. His parents, Marisha, Grigori, or any of the women she’d befriended around the neighbourhood would have told him if she seemed too inquisitive for comfort.

Blood-curdling dread crowded out the poison the abomination flooded his faculties with.

You’re the walking embodiment of everything that makes me sick.

What had he done?
 
He bolted to the bus stop, making it onto the bus back to Brighton Beach just as its doors were sliding shut. Unable to bring himself to sit down, he bounced on the balls of his feet the entire way, twisting the straphanger around his fist tighter and tighter as if doing so would make the bus move faster.

He got off two stops early and sprinted the rest of the way. Lungs aflame, feet primed to fall off, he took the stairs to their apartment three at a time.

‘Payal!’

Excepting the kitchen, the apartment was engulfed in darkness.
 
‘Payal?’

Oleksiy crossed over to the corridor without a care for the wilted leaves and wet gravel he tracked behind him. 
 
The door to her room was shut. He knocked.

‘Payal.’ Voice thick with remorse, he rested his forehead on the wood. ‘Payal, I was out of line. I’m sorry.’

Nothing.

‘Payal, please.’

He knew what he’d find on the other side. Still, he turned the knob and swung the door open.

Excerpted with permission from “The Thief Prince’s Wife”, Noor Juman, Westland.