I loved her. I had allowed myself to love her. In spite of the internal warnings and barriers of which I’d sheathed myself within for over a century now, my love for a single woman, yet again, had dislodged me. I swore after her I’d never allow another woman to make a mockery of me - of the love of which I held for them… But she had. Her infidelity had resulted in the most predictable way possible, even now as I stare down at the near-lifeless body beneath my grip I can’t seem to fathom how I’d become such a fool, yet again, for another Petrova. I’ve been angry for an extrememly long time, exceuting actions inpulsively that in the instance they happened, seemed soothing - but the pain invoked via her deceit wasn’t a pain of which any amount of murder and sex would cure.
Betrayal runs deep, but my brother knows that better than anyone.