I tried to hold them back.
Failed.
A violent sob tore out of my chest.
Then another.
The sound shattered something inside me.
My grip loosened.
The dagger slipped from my fingers and crashed onto the marble floor with a sharp metallic echo.
I turned away quickly.
Fists clenched.
Nails digging deep into my palms until skin broke.
“I can’t,” I whispered hoarsely.
Ruslan’s voice followed me.
“Nothing I do,” he said quietly, “can ever balance what I stole from you.”
“I know that.”
His words were steady.
“I see it every time you look at me.”
I spun back around.
My vision blurred through tears.
“If forgiveness matters so much to you,” I shot back, voice cracking, “why don’t you finish it yourself?”
My gaze dropped to the dagger on the floor.
“Pick it up.”
“Use it.”
“Prove you’re sorry.”
Without hesitation — without even a second of doubt — he bent down.
He grabbed the blade.
Then he pressed it to the skin beside his face.
Not theatrically.
But decisively.
The tip rested near his temple.
“Say the word,” he said.
