Page 109 of Her Darkest Possession

But underneath the well-practiced motions, both their motions are mechanical. And every time I catch a glimmer of Anatoly's eyes, I can' t help but notice the emptiness I see in them.

He lost his brother today.

When he's satisfied with everything, Anatoly sinks onto the well-worn couch. It's the same one where I'd curled up on while Mom and Dad hugged me close after that awful summer. The same place where I cried myself asleep after their funeral.

Now it holds my husband, shell-shocked and grieving.

Roma speaks in hushed tones on his phone in my parents' old room, and the door is cracked just enough for the light to spill into the hallway. There are guards stationed downstairs and around the block. They're watching every approach to the building.

We should be safe.

But none of that matters to Anatoly. He looks broken.

His eyes are fixed on nothing as they stare directly ahead at the worn floorboards like they're the most interesting thing in the world. His hands—those powerful, deadly hands that I've come to love—rest limply on his knees.

"Tolya," I whisper, sitting beside him. The couch dips with my weight, but he doesn't shift to accommodate me like he usually does.

When he doesn't respond, I take his hand in mine. His fingers are cold.

"I'm sorry," I say, knowing the words are inadequate but I need to say them anyways.

Something flickers in his eyes—the first sign of life I've seen since we escaped the burning mansion.

"He died saving you," Anatoly says, his voice rough with smoke and emotion. "He died doing what I asked of him."

I squeeze his hand. "He died a hero."

Anatoly finally turns to look at me, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my heart ache. "I couldn't bring his body out of there. And now I'll never be able to find him again."

I lean forward and cradle Anatoly's head against my chest. His body is stiff at first, as if he's fighting against the comfort I'm offering. But I persist, and keep him close anyway.

Slowly, he relents, and I press my lips to his forehead for a soft, gentle kiss.

"There was nothing you could've done," I whisper, stroking his hair. The thick strands feel gritty with ash and smoke. "The fire was too intense. Vassily would've wanted you to save us. And you did."

I mean well with my words, but I also know that they won't console him. At least not in the way he wants.

Anatoly isn't the kind of person who wants gentle reassurances or pity.

He wants blood. He wants vengeance. He wants to tear apart those responsible with his bare hands.

But I can't offer him that. All I can give is this moment of quiet as the world burns down around us.

"My mother..." Anatoly finally speaks, his voice muffled against my body. The words come slowly, haltingly, as if each one costs him something precious. "She went to Lola. To the Volkovs. Against her own sons."

His shoulders shake once, not with a sob but with disbelief and rage.

"Vassily was always her favorite," he continues, his voice flat with shock. "Her golden boy. And it meant nothing to her. She let that bitch butcher him."

I hold him tighter as the magnitude of this betrayal washes over him. Anatoly's right. His mother sacrificed her most beloved son. The same son who had followed her every command for years. Who did her bidding without question.

And for what?

For a girl who had only an imaginary claim to my husband? For an alliance that had already been ripped to tatters long before Anatoly entered my life? For an imaginary honor that exists only between thieves and criminals?

It's fucking unfair.

And it's cruel beyond measure.