Smooth.
Heavy.
Etched with faint Cyrillic runes that looked ancient — like they carried stories of violence and loyalty passed through generations.
My pulse spiked.
He didn’t threaten me with it.
He didn’t raise it.
Instead — he turned it slowly in his hand before moved closer and placing the hilt into my open palm.
His fingers wrapped around mine.
Guiding.
Closing.
His touch was warm.
Grounded.
He lingered for a second too long.
Not controlling.
Not forceful.
Almost... pleading.
Then he released me.
“Elena,” he said.
His voice was low. Rough.
Stripped of pride.
“I have not been the same man since the day I sent you — innocent... carrying our child — into that hell.”
His jaw tightened as he spoke.
“I turn it over in my head every night.”
His gaze locked onto mine.
“I search for justification. For explanation. For something that makes it less monstrous.”
He swallowed.
“I find nothing.”
The honesty in his words cut deeper than anger ever could.
“Flowers are meaningless.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
