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No, she wouldn’t. No matter what life threw at her, Katya never gave up. To her, everything still had the possibility of a fairytale ending. Part of me wished I shared her outlook on life and yearned for a less bleak future. A future that didn’t taste like soot and ash.
“I met Oksana in a little village in Siberia. She worked as a nurse for Sokolov.” At her raised eyebrow, I answered, “I was at Sokolov’s training facility with several others. Oksana regularly patched me up.” Less regularly than the other men, though, because I picked things up quickly. I trained harder, fought smarter, and controlled the rage inside me better than anyone. That’s when I’d become Sokolov’s prodigy, earning me his favor, and the envy of the other soldiers.
She played with her food. “Patched you up?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
“I can take a guess. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or agree with Sokolov’s training. I don’t like him.”
If she only knew how mutual that feeling was, she wouldn’t even dare speak his name.
“Sokolov saved me.”
“Saved you from what?”
Insanity. “From myself, mostly. He gave me focus and purpose, and taught me everything he knew. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d have fought the world until it had killed me.”
“By teaching you how to fight? By getting you hurt, so you needed an on-call nurse to patch you up?”
She didn’t understand. How could she? She still believed that the shell my soul was trapped in meant something. I was just flesh and bone, a body poised to strike his enemy. I had no other purpose in life.
“It’s not about getting hurt, but about getting up afterward. It’s like Sokolov told me after the first time he kicked my ass. ‘Sometimes you’re gonna be the windshield, and sometimes the bug. Today you were the bug,ditya. It doesn’t mean things can’t be different tomorrow.’”
Her lips pursed. “And Oksana was okay with this? That she had to patch up her boyfriend all the time?”
Oksana had lived for those times. It was the only time we had any privacy. Other than the nights I snuck into her bedroom.
“She was very understanding.”
Katya scoffed. “I bet she was. And why exactly didn’t things work out with your perfect Oksana?”
I nodded. “She was quite perfect indeed.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t marry her.”
Yep, this time there was definitely a bite to her voice. Katya was my polar opposite in so many ways; she couldn’t hide her feelings to save her life.
When I didn’t answer, her eyes lit up.
“Ah,” she said, “So you weren’t ready to make her Mrs. Romanov yet.”
My jaw clenched. “She wouldn’t have become Mrs. Romanov.” No woman of mine would ever carry that hated name. It was my burden, and mine alone, to bear.
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. It was clear she wasn’t sure if she should proceed. Which was unusual for her.
“Ask,” I said.
“Why do you hate your last name?”
No one had ever dared ask me this question. Usually, when someone mouthed off to me by calling me Romanov—a name everyone in my world knew to avoid in my presence—I maimed or shot the guy. With Katya, I sensed she didn’t just ask out of sheer curiosity, but because she wanted to understand me. It was basic psychology. It also raised red flags. The more we bonded, the harder it would be when I had to let her go. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to brush her off. Not about this.
“It’s the name of my mother’s pimp.” She had been afraid to put my biological father’s name on the birth certificate. In hindsight, she’d made the right choice. I’d rather carry her handler’s name than her killer’s. That would have been much worse. And would have probably gotten her killed even sooner.
She frowned. “Why do you keep it?”
I figured this would be her next question. “As a child, I didn’t have the power to protect my mother. Or to go after the man who ordered a hit on her. But I’m a man now. I can protect myself and my own.” I could take and break anyone I wanted. But it hadn’t always been like that. “Romanov is a reminder of where I come from. The ancient Romans had a tradition. After a major military victory, the triumphant generals were paraded through the streets of Rome. During this glorious ceremony, they rode in a horse-drawn chariot. It was the ultimate honor. Riding in the same chariot, standing behind the general, was a slave. The slave’s sole responsibility was to whisper in the general’s ear, ‘Hominem te esse memento. Memento mori. Remember that you are mortal. Remember, you will die.’ The slave reminded the general that fame and honor were temporary, and he too would eventually die.”
It was meant as a warning so the fame wouldn’t go to the generals’ head. To me, it served a different purpose.
