he mimicked her expression. the curious expression, never blinking. oh so do you not realize that i already know who you are? sure it took a while to put together the pieces, but to him it was just a game. it was simply a matter of time. she had given them such a sweet gift; george, the man without a tongue. the man that lost everything. the man that had seen the widow up close and lived to tell the tale. sure it took a while. i took a while to communicate with the poor bastard, but when he did–he told them all about the monster that did this. “i have no doubt that you are a good student. you must be. after all, you have a kgb class gun and a particular knife with engravings that must have signified how important you were. ” he was tapped his pen on the paper a couple of times before looking back up at her. “in front of a tsar’s daughter? it would be strange if i did since my father was the one that signed off on that particular tragedy. you might have heard of it.”
She should be dead. Don’t mistake this for suicidal tendencies. It is rather what one would call protocol. She should be dead. She should have stung herself, slit her throat, hung herself from the ceiling in the moment she was caught. That was the first thing she learned. Never let them catch you alive. Never let them interrogate you. Never let them find out who you are. She should be dead, but there was something keeping her in this wretched, atrocious world. Something kept her from ending her own life. She tightens her jaw, nails digging into her own palms the moment he mentions the knife. Of course they would take it from her. The moment she felt a sting, followed by a burning sensation, she should have known better. “Hmmhmm, you know so much, don’t you? Does the vomit of information help to keep your ego on check? Let me give you something else: everyone has a knife like that. It’s standard.” Here’s the sensation: something burning. Here’s another one: heart racing as her vision goes red and she tastes blood in her mouth. By all means, she hates the Romanova. She hates Nikolai, she hates Caterina, she hates Alexander. She hates them all. But she doesn’t hate Olga, she doesn’t hate Tatiana. She doesn’t hate Alexei. She doesn’t hate Maria. She doesn’t hate Anastasia. Those were children. Those were russian children. They were innocent. In a swift movement she leans in once again, close enough to look into the blue of his eyes before raising her brows. “It seems like a little habit of yours, then, doesn’t it? To never properly finish a job.”