It seemed for a long moment that he wouldn’t answer. Perhaps he intended simply to pivot on his heel and march away rather than relive whatever it was. But no. Instead, that careful mask cracked. Another layer of the matryoshka doll parted.

And dark, roiling hatred peeked out. “They killed her. The Bolsheviks.” He said the name as if it were the vilest of curses. “Murdered her to teach me a lesson. This is when I left.”

She lifted a hand to her mouth, but the gasp slipped out before she could cover it. The rest of the pieces slid into place. “And they left her on your doorstep. Like that girl tonight.” And it couldn’t have been more than a few months ago. January or February. The memories would still be so fresh. A wound still bleeding—all the more so because he clearly hadn’t been grieving it in the normal way. “Oh, Zivon.”

His hand fisted, his gaze went clouded. “They killed her, and they will bear no consequences for it, not from the law. But they will pay. I will see this war ends, and I will do everything in my power to show the world the truth of them. I will await the day that the Lord visits His vengeance upon them.”

A chill pricked its way up her spine. The bitterness in his voice—she’d never expected to hear that coming from him. Never expected to learn that what he’d suffered had been so recent, so devastating, so consuming. She didn’t know how she was to compete with that. Even if he’d never loved this Alyona in a romantic way, the way she’d been ripped from him would guarantee that he thought of her every day. All hours. That her image would haunt him in death as it may not have done in life.

And he’d been letting it fester, given his reactions tonight. “Have you . . . perhaps spoken to Clarke about this? Or a clergyman?”

Rage sparked its way through the stillness in his eyes. “There is no one I could trust with this.”

Was it a compliment, then, that he was trusting her with it now? It felt more like a burden. One she would gladly shoulder if it would help him, but how? She had no idea. She was willing but utterly ignorant. “I can’t think such pain is meant to be kept secret. How are you to heal from it?”

The breath that escaped his mouth was half laugh, entirely scoffing. He turned, motioned to the room. “You ought to know, I suppose, about secrets.”

The anger in his tone sent her back a step, and she bumped into her chair. “I beg your pardon?”