Page 137 of The Devil's Thorn
He nods once. “Natalya Romanova. Married to my father for sixteen years. Loved him, hated him, I don’t know. I stopped caring about the reasons the day she sank a blade in my side and vanished like a ghost.”
He shifts forward slightly, elbows on his knees now. “I haven’t seen her since. No calls. No note. No closure. Just steel in my flesh and silence.”
There’s no hatred in his voice. No bitterness. Just… nothing. And somehow, that’s worse.
I watch him for a long moment, unsure what he wants me to say. Maybe he’s waiting for pity.
But he should know better. I don’t do pity.
“You lived,” I say finally.
He meets my eyes. “Unfortunately.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing else to say. And he seems to respect that.
A thick quiet settles between us, heavy with the weight of stories neither of us are ready to tell.
And then slowly, without a word, I reach into my pocket. My fingers brush the cool metal. The delicate chain slides between them, and I wrap it once around my knuckles before pulling it out.
The gold glints in the soft light of the room. I don’t look at it. I’ve seen it a thousand times. I could trace every line of the photo inside with my eyes closed.
Instead, I slide it across the table between us, the movement slow and deliberate. It stops just short of his hand. He doesn’t reach for it. Not yet. But he looks down.
And I speak before he can. “Do you know them?”
He doesn’t move at first. Just stares at the necklace like it’s something alive. Like it might bite.
Then finally, with the same slow precision he uses when holding a weapon, he reaches for it. The chain coils between his fingers as he lifts it, lets it dangle for a beat before easing it open with a flick of his thumb.
The tiny photo inside catches the light.
My mother. My father. Both smiling. Frozen in a time I can barely remember.
I watch his eyes as he studies it. There’s a flicker of something there. Recognition maybe? No—just concentration. And then… nothing.
His expression stays unreadable. Detached.
After a moment too long, he lifts his gaze to mine. “I don’t know them.” His voice is quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s telling me the time.
My stomach clenches, but I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink. I just nod once. Slowly. “I figured,” I murmur.
But something in me still tightens. Even though I knew it was coming. Even though I told myself he wouldn’t know their faces, their names, their story. I still… hoped.
Hope is a fucking disease.
He sets the locket down carefully in the space between us, the way you’d return a weapon you had no use for.
His voice cuts through the quiet again. “Who were they?”
I lean back slightly, crossing my arms. “People who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He studies me like he’s trying to figure out which part of that sentence is the lie. I don’t give him the answer.
His eyes narrow just slightly. “When?”
“Christmas Eve. Fifteen years ago.”
Something shifts in his posture. Barely. But I notice it. A tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. I don’t know if it’s the date or the tone of my voice that did it.
