It hits me then. I've been speaking Russian. Words I don't remember learning flowing like water.
"I loved him." The English feels foreign now, clumsy. "I was S. The one in his diary. I was…"
The pressure crests, white-hot agony that makes me curl into myself on the floor. My vision fractures into starbursts.
Darkness rushes in from the edges. I'm vaguely aware of Alexei's arms lifting me from the floor like I weigh nothing, his chest against my side, his fingers gripping my bare thigh where the shirt has ridden up. My body, even in crisis, notes every point of contact. His voice is tight with something that might be fear, barking orders at someone. Guards? A doctor?
Fragments reach me through the haze:
"…speaking perfect Russian…" "…found her with Mikhail's journal…" "…get her to the bed…"
I try to hold onto the memories. Misha's laugh, the garden, the promise I made, but they're already receding like a tide pulling back from shore.
No.No, I need to remember. I need to know what I promised.
But the darkness wins.
I surface slowly, like swimming up from deep water. Alexei's bed. Dark outside. I've lost hours to whatever happened in the study. My head throbs, but it's manageable now. The splitting pressure gone, leaving only echoes.
He's in the chair by the window, keeping vigil, watching me with an intensity that makes my chest tight. Not sleeping, not moving, just watching. The way he looks at me, like I'm something precious and poisonous all at once, makes my chest ache. The diary rests in his hands, leather cover catching lamplight.
As soon as he sees I'm awake, he moves toward the door, leaving his vigil, leaving me, and panic flares in my chest.
"Alexei?"
"I'll be in the study." His hand tightens on the doorframe until his knuckles go white. "Don't… don't go anywhere."
He leaves for the study, taking the diary with him and pulling the door shut with careful control that speaks of barely leashed emotion.
I'm alone with the weight of revelation crushing my chest.
I lie in his bed, staring at the ceiling while my mind churns through fragments that won't quite connect. The ceiling offers no answers, just shadows from the lamplight that shift like ghosts.
I knew Mikhail. Not just knew him, loved him, if the diary is true. All this time, I thought I'd somehow gotten an innocent Russian boy killed through carelessness. But that's not whathappened. We were friends. Maybe more. He wrote about me like I hung the stars.
He was going to warn me about something. His father's plans. A meeting.
The massacre.
The pieces are there, floating just out of reach. Every time I try to grasp them, they slip away like smoke. My mind has built walls so thick that even this revelation can't fully break through.
What did I promise you, Misha?
The name feels right on my tongue, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. Somewhere in my fractured memory, a fifteen-year-old girl is laughing in a garden with a boy who wants to build beautiful things. They're teaching each other languages, sharing secrets, making promises.
And then blood. Screaming. Mikhail dead at eighteen, his dreams of architecture rotting with him.
From the study comes the sound of breaking glass. Sharp, violent. Something heavier follows. Wood splintering maybe, or ceramic shattering against a wall.
Each crash makes me flinch, like the sound is breaking something in my chest too. Another crash. Then silence. Long, heavy silence that presses against my ears.
I lie still, barely breathing, when I hear the study door open. Soft footsteps. He's coming back.
The bedroom door opens silently. I keep my eyes closed, but I feel him enter the room like a change in air pressure. The floorboards creak slightly under his weight. He doesn't go to the chair. He comes to the bed. Stands over me. I can feel his gaze like hands on my skin, studying every inch of the woman his brother loved.
My breath catches, but I keep my eyes closed. The mattress doesn't dip. He's just standing there, watching. The weight of his stare makes my skin heat. Even devastated, even knowing whatI was to Mikhail, my body responds to his proximity. My nipples tighten beneath his shirt, and I hate myself for it.
"Open your eyes, Sofia."
