"You're an Isaev."

Taras held Lasha's gaze steadily.

"You don't want to be a saint."

He stilled the motion of his fingers against Lasha's scalp for a moment, and he just cradled Lasha's head in his broad hand, leaning closer.

"That's never going to be you. And anyone who knows you, knows that."

He paused.

"Liadov knows that," he added, more quietly.

It made his chest twinge to say the man's name. Something ached inside him, pulsing uncertainly.

Taras shook his head.

"You don't really want to be different than what you are. You just want your comrade back."