Chapter 9
The next morning, a fragile calm had settled over Anastasia’s rooms. The first three days had been enough to undo fifteen years of certainty. Both struggled with the revelation of the other.
Mikhail was awake early, a habit from spending the last fifteen years in a monastery, unable to sleep in once the sun was up. He was pacing his bedroom, hands behind his back.
The overly done furnishings of the room made him dreadfully uncomfortable, and he had half a mind to hock it to make Anastasia mad before reconsidering.
She has no loyalty to her family… She even wants to see their cruelty abolished.
Mikhail’s mind was turning like a cog on wheels without coolant, throwing sparks and threatening to explode. He spent over a decade with one singular version of Anastasia in his mind. Now, he was face-to-face with her, and she was precisely the opposite.
Seeing her family’s cruelty end doesn’t mean she necessarily wants a revolution, he wagered with himself, wondering how deep her loyalties ran.
When his mind drifted to her controlled diet and how thin she was, how trapped she was in these rooms, forced to sit through an endless barrage of useless acolytes poking her for her magic…
How did she not destroy the whole place as soon as she could? As soon as she had a chance?
Maybe she wanted to. She didn’t know who Mikhail was when he arrived. He could see during her confession how deeply Asya’s death bothered her. It had been an accident, he could see that much was true.
He knew what it looked like to carry a burden for that long, a lump of hot coal turning in your stomach, how those lines took shape on a person’s face.
It didn’t matter; it had only been three days.
The circumstances under which their lives had come together were a crashing force, like tectonic plates battling it out against one another.
Only time would tell if they would be able to recognize each other’s matching scars or if the animosity of things out of their control would drive them apart.
Protect the Romanov magic. Mikhail heard his mother’s voice in his head, her last oracle message. How could he forsake his love for her to help her murderer?
An accident. An accident! She was a child… you’ve seen how she’s been taught to feel about her magic.
He was at war with himself when he heard a knock on the chamber’s main door. Mikhail quickly moved to answer it, feeling like the noise was a disruption of the uneasy truce that had settled between the two of them.
When he swung the heavy door open, one of the servants was there with a serving tray full of chargers and cloches.
“Set it on the table,” Mikhail’s voice was quiet. He didn’t want anything to wake Anastasia.
He groaned internally, the dichotomy of his heart threatening to drive his brain in two. The servant efficiently dispatched the food and was gone moments later, all too eager to be done in Anastasia’s chambers. Her reputation amongst the palace was one of fear.
Mikhail filtered through his options before going over and knocking gently on Anastasia’s door. She swung it open nearly a second later, betraying that she had been awake for quite some time, too.
Anastasia fought to keep the expression off her face as she soaked in the sight of early morning Mikhail. His canvas shirt and trousers rumpled from sleep, hair pulled onto the top of his head, and his smile shockingly warm.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he grinned easily, “but I wanted to wake you before the food got cold.”
“The—before what?” Anastasia’s eyes went wide as her gaze shifted to behind Mikhail.
She gasped, and her hand flew up to her mouth.
The cloche tops had been removed, and a full breakfast was spread out in her sitting room.
The food had been prepared according to the tsar’s menu, including jellied grouse, strawberry ice treats with chestnuts, and hot pastries with chicken and dill.
Mikhail had asked for additional dishes of sizzling meat and eggs so Anastasia could choose her breakfast. Her eyes zeroed in on the pastries, wafting with steam as butter melted off the golden-brown crusts.
“Oh my god,” her voice was reverent as she descended on it, sitting down and grabbing the first pastry she could get her hands on.
Anastasia sank her teeth into it and collapsed back in her chair. She began to gorge herself on the hot food, emitting happy, satisfied noises as she chewed. Mikhail watched with a smile on his face as a warm feeling expanded in his chest.
Once she finished, she reached for something else, then paused unexpectedly. Anastasia’s eyes rolled over the table as she seemed almost overwhelmed, tears beginning to shine in her eyes.
Mikhail was hammered with the realization of how long she had gone without.
He was by her side in an instant, gently putting his hand on her arm.
“Here, let me.” Anastasia nodded and leaned back a little in her chair, resigning and letting Mikhail fix her a plate.
In an incredibly ironic twist, after living her entire life in the Winter Palace surrounded by feasts, Anastasia had no idea what half of the dishes were and didn’t know how to serve them to herself.
Mikhail handed her the heavy, silver plate, loaded with food for the first time in years.
He should be repulsed at the notion of serving the duchess, but he searched his heart and found no such emotion.
There was only an overwhelming desire to see her finish everything on the plate.
Anastasia accepted it and looked up at him, sniffling quietly.
“I… I don’t…,” she stopped and stared down at it, “I don’t know what to say. You should hate me, Mikhail. You really should.”
The physical proximity started to make him twitch. His fingers were still warm from where he touched her arm.
“Maybe I still do,” he admitted, now unable to meet her gaze. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” He was quiet before changing the subject. “You need to eat, especially if we’re going to work on your magic.”
She nodded and fell back onto the plate. Mikhail watched her eat for a few minutes, his heartbeat racing at the joy on her face, before he forced himself to turn away.
When she was finished, Mikhail shook his head, grabbed the plate, filled it for a second time, and handed it back to her.
“Eat, Anastasia,” his voice left no room for argument, and she accepted the plate. She stared at it for a few moments before Mikhail raised an eyebrow at her, silently conveying his confusion.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful.” Anastasia’s voice was quiet, as though this was suddenly the most uncomfortable she had been around him. She placed a hand over her stomach, grimacing slightly. “I’m already full.”
Mikhail stopped, a sick realization settling over him. As much as Anastasia was fighting against a starving man’s mentality, pushing back against the urge to eat everything in sight, her stomach was small from years of neglect. He turned away from her.
“I have no intention of letting them starve you like that again.” Mikhail’s voice was stoic, speaking the gentle reminder out loud to ease Anastasia’s panic. She nodded once, changing the subject.
“What was it like for you?” She asked quietly, popping another bite into her mouth, to savor the taste a little more, keeping her eyes downcast. Mikhail stiffened and looked at her, his eyes going wide.
“Are you sure that you want to know?” He sighed, wondering if it would be better for them to leave the past buried. Anastasia nodded.
“I need to know. It was my fault.”
Mikhail didn’t say anything before shrugging, “It wasn’t pleasant. I fought with the priests often. The first six months, they held me naked in a wine cellar and beat me until they realized I’d never accept the priesthood.”
The way it fell out of his mouth so casually made Anastasia nearly drop the glass she was holding. The color drained from her face, and a heavy sense of shame sank in her gut, a red flush rising to her ears.
“I am sorry.”
“I was more upset over the loss of my mother.”
As soon as Mikhail said it, he realized how much of a barb it was. Anastasia put her fork down and stared at him, both easing back into their emotional corners, a tense atmosphere settling over the room.
“I loved her, too, Mikhail,” she said, her throat tight as she fought the sensation of wanting to run and hide. “You weren’t the only person who lost her that day.”
“Because you killed her!” Mikhail’s voice had a reverberation to it that sent chills down Anastasia’s spine, and they jumped to their feet.
“It was an accident! Why can’t you understand that? I don’t even know how it happened!”
“You did it. You still did it! Fuck, Anastasia, did you truly have no idea what you were doing?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing!” Anastasia screeched, her face flushing as the two squared off. Their posture was cold and hostile; any truce between them earlier in the morning evaporated in an instant.
“You’re a murderer!”
“You don’t think I know that? I’ve lived every day with that knowledge.”
“But you have lived!” Mikhail rebutted, wagging his finger in Anastasia’s face.
“Do you call this living?” Anastasia pointed towards the breakfast table, indicating her previous starvation. “I lost the only person who ever—”
“Don’t you dare say that she loved you!” Mikhail’s voice shook the chandelier. His face was red and his chest heaving, his hair beginning to slip out of its knot.
Anastasia’s hand flew to her face, and her teeth began to grind. She was feeling an intense wave of melancholy wash over her, as if he was trying to steal the only happy memories she had.
“You have no idea what she meant to me. I know she was your mother, Mikhail, but I’m asking you to listen to me.”
“My name is Rasputin!” Mikhail shouted back. He didn’t want to hear Anastasia call him by that name, not the name his mother had given him.
“Fuck you and fuck that name!” Anastasia screamed, her voice matching his in power as sparks began to flicker between her fingertips.
She cursed, clasping her hands together and rubbing her fingers across her knuckles to get the magic to die down.
“What, are you going to light me up, too?” Mikhail taunted her, tugging at his shirt and loosening it from where it had been tucked in.
Anastasia stopped, all the blood leaving her face as that awful day came rushing back to her. The shame, the guilt, the leering looks, and the day her freedom ended.
Without thinking, she picked up the lid of a cloche, reeled back, and threw it at Mikhail’s head. It narrowly missed him as he ducked to the side, crashing into the wall with an echoing, metallic clang. The sound rang through the room like a bomb going off.
Mikhail turned to look at her, his eyebrows raising. All the hatred he had struggled with towards her resurfaced.
He turned and stalked towards her, Anastasia backing up until she was standing against the wall. Mikhail moved across the room and towered over her, his massive frame boxing her in.
“Go on,” Mikhail teased her with a sneer that she hadn’t ever seen on his face before, “Try something. What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll kill me, too?”
Anastasia let out a strangled cry, the tears finally slipping down her cheeks as she screamed in frustration.
She raised her hands in front of her face, hardly able to see through her tears as they came harder.
She was holding her palms out in front of Mikhail’s chest to try to summon her magic, but nothing happened.
She let out a scream of frustration and slammed both of her hands down on his chest, railing against him with fifteen years of caged emotion.
Mikhail grunted, grabbing her wrists and raising them above her head in one rapid motion. She pushed her back off the wall, refusing to be subdued until he moved his leg between hers and pinned her there.
Anastasia gasped and tried to wiggle free as his hands tightened around her wrists, not enough to hurt but enough to convey that she wasn’t going anywhere.
He leaned in impossibly close until their bodies were flush, heat radiating between them. They stood there for a moment, the room silent except for the heavy sounds of their breathing.
Anastasia tried to twist out of his grip again to no avail. Her eyes went wide as she felt his anger begin to melt from him, a dark chuckle vibrating along her skin, forcing her to glance up at his face.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Mikhail muttered, shaking his head in mock sincerity. “You would need magic to get out of this, your grace.”
“Fuck you.” Anastasia cursed internally as her tone betrayed her, now utterly bereft of any malice.
“I think, despite everything, you’d like to,” he winked, “You do look rather torn up about it, though. If it makes you feel better.”
Mikhail gave her a saccharine smile and released her wrists, letting her push off the wall and shove past him. She forced the thoughts of his weight pressed against her out of her mind. She reached the door to her bedroom when his voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Lessons are at noon.”
“Excuse me?” Anastasia spat indignantly, turning on her heel and staring at him, her eyes livid and full of fire.
Beautiful. Mikhail thought. She’s a murderer with no control of her magic, but she’s stunning when she’s alight.
“Lessons,” he cleared his throat and nodded at the destroyed breakfast in front of them. “Your mother will want some report from me. And I’d prefer it if you got a grip on whatever power,” he rolled his eyes at the word, “you do possess.”
Anastasia could feel something cold wash over her as if she had jumped in freezing water. As volatile as their relationship was, he wasn’t like anyone her mother had ever sent before. That something different had given her brief glimpses of hope.
If he was hellbent on being another tutor, he wanted something—riches from her parents, a title, maybe land. Whatever the past three days had been, she thought, at least it had been real.
He’s been trying to get under my skin this whole time to get a rise out of me, hasn’t he? It’s all a show to be known as the man who unleashed Anastasia’s magic.
“I’ll let you calm down,” Mikhail winked at her, settling back down next to the spilled food as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “We’ll try in a few hours.”
Anastasia stood in her doorframe, shaking her head. “When a tutor fails, my father has them killed,” she said as she opened the door to her room. “If my magic doesn’t kill you, the fact that it won’t manifest will.”