Petyr's anxiety was suffocating him. No. Not anxiety. That wasn't the right word. He huffed, leaning against the building, out of breath. A word came to mind- wanderlust- but that wasn't right either. No, wanderlust had been tamer than this. And focused on travel. But its implications were nearly the same. A craving, a desire, an itch that his fingers were tempted to scratch. No, wanderlust was not quite right. What was he really feeling? He searched for it again.

Bloodlust. It was the word he'd been looking for, but not the word he'd wanted. But it was true. He was craving to kill this girl. For a moment, he questioned himself. This desire was drastic, tempting, and it left a dark taste on his tongue. It shocked him. It frightened him. Ever since he'd found Anastasia, he'd seemed almost... not himself. But, he could not stop now. He could still see his family being dragged away, as if it had happened yesterday. He'd screamed for them, begged them to stay with him. No, he would not stop now. Not after the years of pain this girl had brought to him. She would join her family, turn to ashes in the ground. He could not let himself doubt now. From here on, his path was beyond return. It was his fate.

He looked around, regaining himself a bit. Remember where you are, he reminded himself. The cold winds were harsh. Today was moist and bitter, despite the blue skies and sunshine. It took him ten seconds of deep breathing to be able to recall a hazy picture of where he was and how he'd gotten there.

He didn't know where he was exactly, but he knew he was near the palace. He'd gone there early, in hopes of following the girl home. But Anastasia had not gone home. She had gone out shopping, with her Grandmother and a servant. He'd attempted to track her, but with the presence of the Dowager so near, he hadn't dared.

That had made him angry. He could barely remember what paths he'd taken. It was all ringing in his ears and his pounding heart in his chest. Brushing past people, almost running. He'd gotten here, a secluded area, and pounded his fists into the wall until they cracked and bled.

"Fool," he muttered to himself now, looking down at his raw knuckles. "You have to keep control."

His anger had overpowered him. That couldn't be allowed to happen again.

Gingerly, he reached into his pocket and found a handkerchief. He tried in vain to wipe away the blood, but it would not come so easily. His trembling hands did not help the matter. Petyr let out a breath of angry air. He'd have to return home to wrap them. Shoving his fists into his pockets, he exited the narrow space and returned to the main road. He'd been right, he wasn't far from the palace. The area was not so well known to him as others, but he'd crossed it from time to time. A familiar shop caught his eye, and he headed for it. Looking ahead, he found that it led to an intimate area, one he knew well. Confidently, he let himself follow the roads to his home until he reached his front door. Trying to ignore his body's tremor, he let himself inside and exhaustedly collapsed on a chair.

The rooms were in turmoil. Clothes, papers, tossed everywhere. Usually, he was so organized, neat and clear. Neatness had barely crossed his mind since the girl had appeared. Swallowing hard, he shook his head. He couldn't let himself fall apart. If he was really going to pull any of it off, he'd have to be organized, even more than usual. Grunting, he pulled himself up from the seat and delicately began to clean the mess. Then, he cautiously cleaned and bandaged the wound. Better. He was still shaking, but at least no one would see the mess. He looked around at the tidy house. Good.

He returned to the streets. 'What now?' he wondered. Fate was quick to answer his question as two men passed by him.

It was the man, the dark haired man who had come into the palace with Anastasia. The one she'd gone to dinner with last night. He was walking with a man Petyr vaguely recognized, that one who often spoke to the press for the Dowager. A promising duo.

'Yes, of course,' he thought excitedly. 'Of course! The boy is bound to talk of her.' He grinned, starting to trail behind them. 'Perhaps,' Petyr thought, 'My luck will finally pick up and he'll mention somewhere she'll be!'

The men were stupidly easy to follow, bumbling and oblivious. Petyr quickly learned that the dark haired man was called Dmitry, and was reminded that the other's name was Vlad.

They left the city and entered forest, taking a long climb through the lush hills until they reached a particular high men were out of breath, which Petyr took note of. Every detail would matter. As the men slowed, Petyr let his trail on them loosen, until they came to a stop. Cautiously, he crouched behind some bushes and crawled towards them until he could hear what they were saying clearly.

"This is where we were when we very first saw Paris," Vlad was saying.

There was a moment of silence, and Petyr ached to stand and see what was happening, but he kept his stance.

"Do you remember how you felt, Dmitry?" the older man asked. "That rush of feeling? That fear, that excitement, that relief? I've kept that feeling with me the entire time I've been in this city."

Petyr was immediately bored. This was useless.

More silence. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard. His thighs were beginning to cry out from the uncomfortable position, but he stayed still as a statue.

"I remember, Vlad."

This was so soft Petyr almost didn't catch it.

"What stands out, Dmitry?" Vlad questioned.

"Jumping the train. Crossing the border," came the answer.

Petyr immediately straightened. What?

"Yes, illegally leaving the country does bring a certain amount of exhilaration."

Vlad was joking, but the quip flooded Petyr with rage. They were here illegally? Had they helped the girl escape?

Breathing deeply, he tuned back into the men.

"Do you know the chances of a girl choosing a man over being a princess? If it had been any other girl, I would have been right."

Petyr let himself sink onto the ground, relieving his screaming body from the painful pose he'd held. They knew who she was. Knew who she was and helped her get out.

Traitors, then. Just as much as she was.

They would die too.

The decision was made so swiftly it almost caught him off guard. But it fit all too well. The bystanders, the ones who turned their head from Russia, they deserved their fate just as much.

A cracking twig brought him back to the hill. The men were leaving. He regret not having listened to the end of the conversation, but let the affliction slide off of him. It wasn't important- he'd learned what he'd needed to know. He listened to the sound of the men retreating back to the city until he was sure they were gone. Once again, he had to remind himself to not let his emotions overpower him. His trek down the hill was silent and cautious, with Petyr noting to himself not to get careless. He could not afford to be caught, and even more so, he could not imagine what these men would do if they caught him eavesdropping. They'd crossed the border illegally, hid the Grand Duchess… obviously their regard for the law was not a priority. Would they hurt him? Kill him? He did not know them well enough to answer, but he was not keen to find out.

As he entered back into the city, he double-checked that the men were not in sight, then strutted into the streets. He was confident now, fate was leading the way. It was telling him exactly where to go and what to do- he would just have to make sure to listen.

He looked around, trying to feel its guide. Nothing. Hmm…

He looked down a path and followed it, willing it to lead him where he was meant to be. At the end was his reassurance. He was shocked, honestly, in how perfect it was. There, at the end, there they were. The Dowager, the Princess, the servant. He nearly laughed at how clear the sign was. Petyr was still hesitant to follow them, but he could not ignore the so clearly planted evidence that it was where he was meant to be. He took a step forward, tensing at how near they were.

Relax. You've done this a thousand times.

He took in a breath slowly and let himself fall into a loose follow of the women. They were talking, but he did not dare get close enough to hear what they said. He couldn't let his curiosity make him careless.

Following them was difficult. Dismissing the thought of getting discovered was not easy. With what had happened last time he followed her, it was dangerous to do so again, and he was fully aware of this. But he was meant to follow them. He was sure of it.

He let himself trail behind as they squeezed through crowds. His mind was buzzing, his palms clammy. His breaths were coming quick and shallow, and sweat was starting to bead on his forehead.

Remember. Remember why she needs to die in the first place.

All it took was one memory of his family, and his panic was replaced by anger. Usually, his anger was fierce and overpowering. Here, it was icy steel. He was strangely calm, but the bitter fire within him still burned. His follow on them became more automatic. The girls stopped at many of the shops, and he observed them. Anastasia was a bit reserved, obviously shaken from the encounter last night. The servant never seemed to shut up. He could hear her loud tones droning from where he stood.

Finally, mercifully, they entered a store, and he followed. It was a store for gowns. He was immediately out of place. The rest of the store was empty, besides the women and one worker. He dropped to a crouch, hiding behind one of the rows of gowns. This was ridiculous. Being in a position like this left him feeling unguarded and open. He'd have no explanation if he was found. Silently, he shifted himself so that he could move easier, and headed more towards them until he could hear soft voices. Very slowly, he dared to sneak a glance at them. The girl and her grandmother were talking, turned away from him. The servant was a few feet away, looking at gowns. He ducked back down and sighed, then risked moving a few feet closer. The talking had stopped, and he tilted his head, wondering if they had moved. Then, just a few feet away, he was startled by the sound of a dress being shoved back onto the rack.

Jesus, he thought, alarmed. He moved a bit back, looking around again to see where they were. Anastasia and the Dowager had separated, and were farther away. The servant was nowhere to be seen.

He would have to move closer again. One step closer. Then another. And another. Finally, he heard conversation. It was muffled by the dresses, so he rearranged himself until it was clearer. He couldn't piece together exactly what they were saying- the voices were very soft. He was only able to catch a bit about a young man… telling him something?

"Are we ready to go?"

It was the servant. He recognized her voice. Damn it!

The girls agreed they were done, and headed to the front to purchase. Anger flooding his veins, he gambled being caught and stood to look at them for a moment. Their backs were turned. His heart was pounding, but he took a couple more steps toward them and ducked down. At the last second before he was obscured by the dresses, the servant whipped around.

Shit. Had she seen him?

His breathing grew heavier, but there was nothing but silence from the women. Slowly, they left the store, and he was left alone.

That was too close.

He waited a while before he snuck to the entrance and left the store. They were nowhere in sight, but he didn't care. It was time to return home.

The anger was back.

He tried to slow his breathing, but his heart was racing and his body would not be calmed down. Getting more anxious to control himself, he swept through the streets until he reached his house and threw open the door. Panting, he closed it and slouched down against it, hammering his fists into the floor.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

He was not sure quite what he was angry about. Maybe that he had been so sure they would be talking of something important, maybe that damned servant, maybe just Anastasia Romanov in general.

His hands were bleeding again. He caught his breath and shakily stood, leaning against the door for support. Then, he stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of vodka. It was time to stop being spontaneous. Killing the girl would need to be planned out, every detail. Now was the opportunity to start that plan. When, where, how.

His hands were leaving smears of blood all around, but he ignored this.

Sitting down at his desk, Petyr pulled out a paper and started to write.

In his hands, the plan fell together.