As he starts and then trails off, Anya's grip tightens on her purse strap tightens, color blanching from the knuckles. Her nails dig into the palms of her hands, the pinch startling her enough to relax slightly but not let go. He can't even look at me, she thinks with her heart sinking. How had so much damage happened so quickly? The desire to find a way to roll back in time, to go back to before Dmitry told her that he loved her, before it all went so sideways sweeps through her. But she doesn't want to go too far back. Reliving that horrible night again and again holds no interest to her. The image of Gleb dying, the feeling of his cold lips against hers, her father's shouts, her mother's screams. All of it wakes her in the middle of the night. New ghosts have taken up residence with the old ones. She doesn't want Gleb to be among them.
A startled little gasp escapes her as he says that he never stopped loving her, that he couldn't. No one else is around to here him say it, to see her response. Even Pushkin is at home, likely drooling on the sofa. It is just her and him.
"I don't want you to try to stop," she says without a thinking even though such freedom with her words was what got her into trouble in the first place. "It wasn't anything that you said or did that made me think you wouldn't want —" to marry me goes unsaid in the pause. "A future like that. But our history and I thought my being a Romanov might make you regret loving me eventually."
Now it is her turn to look at the floor, the scuff on the toe of her boots, worn and sturdy and incongruous with the short circle skirt she's wearing. Biting her lip, she shuffles her weight from foot to foot for a moment before making herself stop. She is a Romanov, she isn't ashamed of that. Fixing her posture, she lifts her head to look at him.
His next words ache. Taking a step towards him, she releases her purse which swings free around her shoulder as she reaches out a hand to him. "Please don't regret saying how you felt. I don't care if it might be easier." Her voice is urgent, insistent and commanding in its softness. "I would love you even if I didn't know you felt the same way."
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A startled little gasp escapes her as he says that he never stopped loving her, that he couldn't. No one else is around to here him say it, to see her response. Even Pushkin is at home, likely drooling on the sofa. It is just her and him.
"I don't want you to try to stop," she says without a thinking even though such freedom with her words was what got her into trouble in the first place. "It wasn't anything that you said or did that made me think you wouldn't want —" to marry me goes unsaid in the pause. "A future like that. But our history and I thought my being a Romanov might make you regret loving me eventually."
Now it is her turn to look at the floor, the scuff on the toe of her boots, worn and sturdy and incongruous with the short circle skirt she's wearing. Biting her lip, she shuffles her weight from foot to foot for a moment before making herself stop. She is a Romanov, she isn't ashamed of that. Fixing her posture, she lifts her head to look at him.
His next words ache. Taking a step towards him, she releases her purse which swings free around her shoulder as she reaches out a hand to him. "Please don't regret saying how you felt. I don't care if it might be easier." Her voice is urgent, insistent and commanding in its softness. "I would love you even if I didn't know you felt the same way."