Page 49 of Broken Embers

“You mean she looks like you, Anya,” the man—General Timofey Morozov—says with a warm smile. “She has your strength and tenacity, too. I can see it.”

I should say something. Anything. But I’m stuck in this weird in-between place where I’m both awestruck and resentful. Anya Novikov and Timofey Morozov. My grandparents. Legends. Figures from history books I once devoured with reverence. And now I’m standing here in front of them, apparently part of their bloodline, their legacy.

I give them a nod that’s more polite than warm. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

That’s a fucking understatement. A month ago, I would’ve sold a kidney for a chance to shake Anya Novikov’s hand. I grew up idolizing her work—her fierce independence, her brilliance. And now I know why it always felt so… familiar.

It wasn’t just admiration. It was blood.

My eyes flick to General Morozov. I’m not one to romanticize war heroes, but the man had fascinated me for years. His name was always whispered in connection with Anya’s in historical op-eds and academic circles. And here I am. Standing in front of them like some bizarre footnote come to life.

But I can’t even enjoy the moment. Not really. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on my chest.

“Rina!”

The sound cuts through me like a blade.

I turn and see her. Carla. My mother. Standing a few feet away, watching me like she’s afraid to blink.

And that’s when it hits me full force.

I’m angry.

So fucking angry.

Not just because of the lies, though there were many. Not just because I had to learn the truth from a stranger wearing my family’s DNA like a crown, or because I was taken, used as bait, toyed with, broken down to nothing, and forced to piece myself back together in some godforsaken underground hellhole.

No.

I’m angry because I missed her. Because I thought I’d never see her again. And I wasn’t ready to lose her.

I feel like a pressure valve is about to snap, and before I can do or say anything, she moves.

She rushes toward me with wild, desperate steps, and then she’s there—arms around me, squeezing so tightly I forget how to breathe.

“Oh my baby… my sweet girl…” she chokes out, clutching me like I’ll vanish if she lets go. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Her voice shatters something in me. My legs go weak, my throat burns, and for a second—just a second—I let myself melt into her.

Because even when you’re furious, even when your world’s been ripped out from under you, even when you have every reason to keep your distance…

Sometimes, you just need your mom to hold you.

I don’t hug her back, not really. My arms hover, then touch her lightly. I’m still too raw. Too uncertain. But I don’t pull away either.

She holds me like she’s trying to absorb my pain, to rewind time, to erase every nightmare I lived in that sterile prison. But she can’t. And when I feel my own composure starting to crack, I do the only thing I know how to do.

I pivot.

“Elena,” I rasp, swallowing the sob trying to crawl up my throat. “Where is she?”

Carla pulls back instantly, as if sensing the limits of my emotional bandwidth. “She’s in the west wing playroom,” she says softly. “Galina’s with her.”

That’s all I need to hear.

I turn without another word and walk out of the room, trying not to break into a run as I head toward the distant sound of Elena’s laughter echoing off the marble. Because right now? I don’t need more answers.

I need her.

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