Chapter 12 #2
“Mikhail,” she hissed, turning to him as he shut the door. “What were you thinking?”
“What?” He looked at her, confused, as he took in the small space. “This is much nicer than most people in the city could ever hope to achieve, Anastasia.” His voice got stern. “If you think this isn’t good enough for you—”
“No!” Anastasia cut him off, crossing her arms over her chest. “Mikhail, this is a room for only one person.” He stopped, standing up straighter and looking over at the bed as if it was the first time he saw it.
An awkward silence fell between them, Mikhail stopping to let his hair down and retying it. It was a nervous motion Anastasia had seen him do a thousand times, but she couldn’t stop staring at his arms every time he did it.
“We can’t do anything about it,” Mikhail finally admitted. He went to sit down at the small table at the foot of the bed, unwrapping a basket of bread. “Come eat.”
“We can’t do anything about it?” Anastasia snapped, careful to keep her voice down so the innkeeper wouldn’t overhear. “We can’t stay here.” Anastasia started chewing on her fingernail.
Mikhail ripped off a piece of bread and dipped it in a pot of stew, gnawing on the end. “Where else do you suppose we go? Unless you want to sneak back into the palace tonight.”
“We can’t do that, but, Mikhail, this is,” Anastasia blushed furiously and waved towards the general direction of the bed. “It’s improper!”
Mikhail looked at her, a deadpan expression on his face. “Really? You care about court etiquette right now?”
“I just think it’s prudent.” Anastasia was more afraid of her own reaction than of her parents’ or the court gossip’s, but Mikhail didn’t need to know that.
“I’ll sleep on the floor if you’re scared of me,” Mikhail smirked, raising his eyebrows once more before chuckling darkly to himself and digging back into the food.
“Scared of you?” Anastasia sat down across from him in a huff. “You’re impossible.”
“Eat,” Mikhail nodded towards the food, “I wasn’t kidding. You used up a lot of energy today. I was worried you were going to overexert yourself.”
“You were worried about me? Touching,” Anastasia quipped back, the small space feeling even smaller now. The air seemed to get thicker, and she took a deep breath. If only she weren’t wearing so many damned layers.
“Of course,” Mikhail was looking up at her, “We can’t have you losing control.”
Anastasia stopped, her food halfway to her mouth, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, stop it,” Mikhail groaned, leaning back in his chair and letting his head drop back, “Everything isn’t an insult.”
“That sure sounded like one.”
“It’s the truth!” He sat up, “You can’t control your magic, Anastasia. That’s it. Stop acting like I’m attacking you every time I mention that.”
“Well, maybe if you were a better tutor,” she rolled her eyes, taking another bite of the bread.
“I’m going to let that pass for the sake of finishing my dinner in peace,” Mikhail grunted, both refusing to meet each other’s gaze, wondering how their camaraderie had descended so quickly.
It never took long. Anytime they seemed to be getting along, one of them would perceive a slight, and fireworks followed.
“Eat this last piece,” Mikhail broke the silence several minutes later.
Anastasia nodded, reaching for it from across the table and grabbing it off his plate without thinking. As she plucked it from Mikhail, the edge of her sleeve rode up her arm. Mikhail dropped the spoon and grabbed her wrist.
“Mikhail!” She squeaked, trying to pull away from him. Mikhail stood up and leaned over the table, his other hand tugging the sleeve of her dress up higher. “Stop it!”
Anastasia writhed to try and escape his grip, but he held firm. Her face flushed with embarrassment, tears threatening to well in her eyes.
“Please,” she whispered while Mikhail stood stoically above her. He finally released her wrist, and she retracted her hand, cradling it against her chest. One heartbeat. Two. “Don’t say anything.”
“Anastasia,” Mikhail’s voice was cold and sharp. It was a tone she had never heard before. “Who the fuck did that to you?”
Anastasia’s arms were riddled with scars, going down to her knuckles, which had taken the brunt of the force. She could still feel the rulers splitting her skin and the stings of the switch.
She despised looking at them. Every single mark left by one of her mother’s tutors over the years made her relive the moments of pain. She broke the mirror in her bathroom years ago.
“Anastasia,” Mikhail repeated, pulling her from her wretched memories, “I asked you a question.” He sat down at the table, his gaze searing through her.
“I forget who started it,” she turned away from his eyes. “It was from all of my lessons over the years.”
Mikhail let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. He stared at her, neither of them able to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, reaching a hand across the table and holding it out to her, palm up. “It shouldn’t have happened to you, Anya.”
Anastasia blinked a few of her tears away, sliding her hands into his. “It’s in the past,” she whispered. “I’m just glad I don’t have to stare at the ones on my back. They’re worse, but at least I can’t see them.” She watched her hand in Mikhail’s, how his palm completely enveloped hers.
“…What?” Mikhail’s voice had dropped an octave and made her shiver as if a single word could lick her skin. Anastasia glanced up, seeing the fury had returned to his eyes, an unrivaled expression that made her believe he might kill anyone who tried to even glance at her sideways.
“Fuck,” Anastasia cursed, quickly pulling her hand from his. “Forget I said anything.”
“Forget?” Mikhail grunted.
“They’re all dead now. It doesn’t matter,” Anastasia looked away and waved her hand dismissively.
“You matter. If they weren’t already dead, I’d kill them.”
Anastasia’s eyes went wide, and she tried to avoid eye contact. The tension settled over the room in a palpable way that made her want to throw open a window for a reprieve.
Every muscle in his body was tense. Anastasia said nothing and absentmindedly ran her thumb over some of the scars underneath her sleeve.
“Let me see them,” Mikhail said quietly, his voice coaxing. “All of them.”
“What?” Anastasia’s voice was muted, her heart beating in her chest as she looked up at him in an intense exchange across the table.
“You heard me,” he said, standing up as his head nearly brushed the ceiling of the cramped room. She stood up, shaking her head and backing away from him.
“No, you can’t. They’re not,” she shook her head, stepping backward until she hit the wall. “They’re ugly.”
“Like these?” Mikhail crossed the room in a few steps, diminishing the distance between them until it was nonexistent. He stared at her for a second before reaching down and grabbing his shirt, tugging it over his head.
Anastasia couldn’t stifle her gasp at the sight of him.
He was riddled with scars that wrapped around his ribs, his shoulders, his torso…
but god, he was beautiful. She hadn’t noticed his scars before.
Every inch of his body seemed to have been carved from stone, and Anastasia couldn’t help herself as she reached her hand towards him.
Mikhail grabbed her hand and pulled it to his chest. She almost recoiled at how hot his skin felt underneath her palm.
“Touch them,” he growled, leaning down and brushing his lips against the top of her head. “Go on. Do they feel ugly to you?”
Anastasia sucked in a sharp breath, bringing her other hand up, running her fingers over his chest and down his sides, feeling her pulse pounding in her veins.
“N-no,” she stuttered, pulling herself back from him and leaning back against the wall.
“Your scars aren’t ugly, Anya,” he leaned in and put his arms on either side of her, caging her in with his body.
He leaned down once more and whispered in her ear, his lips brushing against her and making her go weak in the knees.
“I promise. You’ve seen my scars, Anya. Why won’t you let me see yours?” She knew he wasn’t talking about the ones on her back.
“Stop it,” she whimpered, turning her head and slipping out from underneath his grip. “Don’t say things like that, Mikhail!” She crossed her arms over her chest in frustration.
“Say things like what?” He turned around to face her. “Say things, I mean? Do you think I’m still lying to you?”
“I don’t know what I think,” Anastasia admitted, “We need to keep our distance from one another.”
“Keep our distance?” Mikhail scoffed, looking at her in disbelief as he pointed from the tiny room to his discarded shirt on the floor. “How do you think that’s been going for us?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I’m curious,” he said, stepping close enough to wrap an arm around her waist and tug her to his naked chest. “What’s the distance like between us, Anya?
” He leaned down, whispering in her ear.
“Do you think about me when you touch yourself at night? Does the distance between our rooms get to you?” Anastasia sucked in a sharp gasp, writhing in his hold.
“I think about you,” Mikhail’s voice was pure sin. Anastasia let out a rushed breath, her chest heaving as if she couldn’t get enough air.
“You’re a bastard.”
“I am a bastard,” he agreed, licking a hot stripe up her neck, “You want me. I want you. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”
“Pig,” she gasped, slapping her hand against his chest, “And you were the one asking me about my scars.”
“I’ll kiss them all, malyshka, if you let me. You want to keep the distance between us, so I’ll take what I can get.”
“This doesn’t feel like distance,” Anastasia said, turning and grinding her hips against him, stuttering back her cry when she felt his erection hot and heavy against her. Mikhail groaned and tossed his head back.