The last he wanted to hear her say was goodbye.
She almost looked like she was changing her mind until her eyes darted to where he was reaching for the charm that hung around his neck, pulling it free from the inside of his shirt.
“What was her name?”
He knew exactly who she meant the moment the question left her lips, but even still, he said, “Who?”
“The woman you loved and lost.”
God, when she put it like that…
“Do you want to talk about this here?” he asked.
Without an answer, she turned on her heel and walked back toward the living room, taking up residence in the arm chair she had in the corner of the room, a little ways away from the only other place to sit—the couch.
The entire short journey from bathroom to couch, Niklaus thought of how best to broach the subject.
He had always meant to tell her, she wouldn’t be able to understand him, not completely, until she knew the story of how he came to be the person she met.
This, he realized, was what she had grown upset about back at the penthouse. Sometimes he forgot that she knew so very little about him because he had never had the urge to share this side of him.
With Mishca? It was different. His words were an accusation, were meant to harm and make sure that the Russian understood that he was to blame for all the shit Niklaus had gone through.
But with Reagan…with her, they would be a confession.
To her, he would finally tell his truth.
“I met her when I was sixteen—her name was Sarah. We were different, but we liked each other and that was all that mattered. I was twenty-one when I knew I wanted to marry her So I flew her to New York, planned this big proposal, and even had the ring, but before any of that could happen, we were kidnapped.”
Reagan had already looked sad the moment he started speaking, but now, there was a fear in her eyes, like she knew where this story was going.
He could practically see the dots connecting in her head.
From the time between he was kidnapped and when they met, of the scars on his body, and probably to his occupation though she could only have guessed.
But he needed to give her this, even if it hurt to do so, because just as much as she wanted to understand him, he wanted someone to finally purge to.
“For three days we were kept in this old barn or mill, or whatever the fuck that thing was, and for three days, Luka tried to extract information out of me because he thought I was Mishca. Don’t blame him,” he was quick to say when he saw the expression in her face. “You can’t always blame the man that’s only following orders—after all Mikhail Volkov was said to only have one son, considering we’re twins, it’s hard to believe there were two instead of one.”
Niklaus sat forward, telling more. “On the third day, Luka’s boss, Jetmir, he brought in gasoline and a lighter,”—Niklaus realized almost belatedly that when he spoke those words, he tapped his pocket.—“and he asked me if I would cooperate, if I would tell him what he wanted to know. I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, but at this point, as he’s dumping gasoline on Sarah’s head, I’m willing to tell him anything if it means he’ll let her go.
“But he didn’t, not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. He was more than happy to drop that lighter and burn her alive, just to teach me—the Russian—a lesson. Except he taught me one instead. I learned that even those that are innocent can fucking lose out in the end.”
He could see it, even as far away as he was, the dampness in her eyes—the way she was fighting tears. But the last thing he wanted was for her to feel sorry for him, not when he didn’t deserve it.
“I had to watch every second of it, until she had finally stopped screaming, and even afterward, it still echoed in my ears.”
“I’m so sorry, Niklaus.”
“Luka called Mishca, and the Russians got me out. I thought they were crazy, those fucking Albanians, but I realized that it was Mishca they were after. I figured he would want revenge against them, but he was under orders not to—you learn things as the years go by.”
“Is that why you’re angry with him?” she asked, her voice soft.
“No,” he said, and told her something he would never tell another, “because he was everything I should have been. Every time I see our face staring back at me, I always think about how I lacked in comparison. My hatred for myself is why I can’t stand to be around him.”
“But it wasn’t your fault, Niklaus. You couldn’t have done any more than you did.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“No, Niklaus. It was not your fault. It was never your fault.”