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“I’ve never met a man more in bed with the devil than the ones who wear the priest's clothes,”
Welcome to your day of new birth… Rasputin.”
There was a fire behind Anastasia's eyes that had been dimmed, while not yet extinguished, and she had the face of a woman silenced.
One cannot compare the pain of those who are broken,
“Never,” Anastasia’s voice was strong, “Will you go after anyone I love ever again — including myself.” Before the Tsar could comprehend the weight of her words, she brought the glass down into his heart. Anastasia felt nothing, not even the blood that covered her hands or the weight of the arms that tugged her off her father’s body.
He had nurtured the Romanov magic, but she had found herself. The woman he was carrying away from the ashes of the palace wasn’t someone who needed him — lest he ever forget he was only carrying her because she’d allow it — and she was magnificent when she burned.
