The words hit him like a blow, and Gleb nearly recoils under the force of them. If anything, he thinks he might have preferred it if she struck him. Her anger, he would know what to do with. Her fear, less so, though he knows without question that it would be deserved. Her trust, though? That's a different matter entirely. Had he not already believed her when she said she didn't remember his being in Paris, a statement like that would have been enough to convince him. In a way, it's true enough. He could never hurt her. He knows that now — knows that no matter how close he came to pulling the trigger, he was never actually going to have been able to go through with it; it just took him being there, the intention, the near-attempt, for him to figure that out.
Anya as she's standing before him now wasn't there, though. She didn't see the way he crumpled when he realized he couldn't do it, or stand so close with her gloved hand against his head. He can tell her — he will, he has to — but it still hurts to know he'll be proving her wrong when he wants to do anything but.
"I wouldn't," he says, and shakes his head, not quite able to meet her eyes for the tears in them. There's nothing he can do except make it worse, no matter how much he wishes that weren't so. "I won't. You have my word, Anya. But..."
He nearly chokes on his own words. There's so little he would like more than for what he needs to tell her not to be true, but it is, and he doesn't think he would be able to pretend otherwise. She has a right to know all of it, anyway. Were she anyone else, he might seize this advantage, a moment of having the upper hand, and make the absolute most of it. With her, it's different. She's already left him utterly undone, turning his back on everything that he thought he believed, that he still does. It would still be true even if he didn't tell her, she would still have Romanov blood coursing through her veins, and he doubts he'll ever be able to reconcile that with the girl he knows, the one he fell for.
"You are her," he says finally, voice quieting, his echo of her phrasing deliberate. "You always were. You were... about to tell the world, before I found myself here. Your grandmother called a meeting with the press."
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Anya as she's standing before him now wasn't there, though. She didn't see the way he crumpled when he realized he couldn't do it, or stand so close with her gloved hand against his head. He can tell her — he will, he has to — but it still hurts to know he'll be proving her wrong when he wants to do anything but.
"I wouldn't," he says, and shakes his head, not quite able to meet her eyes for the tears in them. There's nothing he can do except make it worse, no matter how much he wishes that weren't so. "I won't. You have my word, Anya. But..."
He nearly chokes on his own words. There's so little he would like more than for what he needs to tell her not to be true, but it is, and he doesn't think he would be able to pretend otherwise. She has a right to know all of it, anyway. Were she anyone else, he might seize this advantage, a moment of having the upper hand, and make the absolute most of it. With her, it's different. She's already left him utterly undone, turning his back on everything that he thought he believed, that he still does. It would still be true even if he didn't tell her, she would still have Romanov blood coursing through her veins, and he doubts he'll ever be able to reconcile that with the girl he knows, the one he fell for.
"You are her," he says finally, voice quieting, his echo of her phrasing deliberate. "You always were. You were... about to tell the world, before I found myself here. Your grandmother called a meeting with the press."