Chapter 13
Anastasia didn’t know how long she stared after Mikhail. His absence struck her all at once, the warmth dissipating from her body and leaving her cold.
His sudden departure hit like a lack of oxygen. It took her a moment before she was able to release a deep breath, sit up, and fix her dress. She looked around the room, noticing the dishes from dinner had fallen off the table, discarded at the foot of the bed.
Anastasia finally stood and walked around to the desolate scene. She muttered under her breath as she began to clean it up, wiping up remnants of their food and cursing when she saw some of the dishes had cracked.
The poor innkeeper will lose wages trying to replace these.
Even though she had been using her magic all day, Mikhail’s sudden departure left her feeling raw.
She was growing attached to him in ways she hadn’t expected.
Sitting alone in a rented room, she realized how much she could come to consider him an ally.
They had been at each other’s throats for weeks, but it didn’t change the ache in her chest and the emptiness she felt when he’d left so abruptly.
The idea of using her magic to fix the dishes made her feel nauseous. The concept of the innkeeper scraping by to replace them hurt more.
So, she bent down and picked up one of the plates, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
To her surprise, her magic flooded her hands, a cloud of gold dust erupting all around her.
The magic responded openly and willingly to her, the plate lifting into the air and beginning to spin.
It drifted back down gently, all its cracks having mended themselves.
Anastasia let herself smile, her chest warming slightly at the idea of being able to help, but the satisfaction was short-lived.
With a wave of her hand, she repaired the rest of the dishes and made up the table. It was hardly nightfall, but the day’s effort left her tired. She stared at the door as if she could summon Mikhail to walk right back through it, and when that was unsuccessful, she climbed into bed.
???
Mikhail had no plan as he stepped into the cold street. It had taken everything in him to leave that room, no part of him wanting to.
Forget that one taste of her had threatened to undo him like some untried youth… just being near her was starting to cloud his senses. The more he saw her growing confidence in her abilities and her coming out of her shell, the more it drove him mad.
Everyone in her life, particularly the men, was afraid of her. He was drawn to her power like a moth to a flame. Not to use it, harness it, or keep it, but to fan it. He wanted to stoke the fires of her magic and watch as everything burned down around them.
Every time they got close to each other, one of them retreated before they could get burned.
They were dancing around one another's insecurities, waiting for the other to strike.
It was maddening foreplay, forcing them to the edge and threatening to break them in half if they couldn't get over their pride.
Mikhail walked the streets for hours. There was nowhere he needed to go. He had no family left and, after fifteen years away, didn't remember any of his friends. He put his hands in his pockets and headed off in a random direction.
It wasn't until it was well past dark that he figured he could return to the boarding house, hoping he’d wasted enough time for Anastasia to have fallen asleep.
The innkeeper gave him a small smile when he walked back through the front door, but didn't make any mention of the disruption he was sure their argument had caused. He took the steps to double-time to get to their room—
The room. Not our room. Just the room.
He couldn't fight it as much as he tried to deny it. He wanted to see Anastasia.
Mikhail was almost halfway up the stairs when an ear-piercing scream came straight from the top of the stairs. He tripped, barely managed to catch himself, and sprinted up the remaining steps. He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he pushed the door open.
Anastasia was tangled in the middle of the bed, her legs caught in the sheets as though in restraints. He could hear her sobs, a wretched sound, interjecting her screams, making Mikhail feel sick.
She rolled over on her back, her face contorting in pain, some phantom recollection of hurts past. He stood immobile in the doorway, frozen by the idea she wouldn't want him anywhere near her, even as the impossible urge to pull her close and take her from her nightmares built in his chest. He didn't want to know what in her life still haunted her so terribly, although he could conjure plenty of ideas.
Then she made a soft noise, a subtler one. It was a pathetic, mewling sound, barely above a whimper. It was so much worse than when she screamed. It was a surrender, and it broke him.
Mikhail threw caution to the wind and rushed towards the bed, asking for forgiveness under his breath. He climbed into it with her, kneeling by her side, gently removing her from the tangled web of sheets.
"Anastasia," he coaxed gently as his hands slipped around her shoulders, straddling her, taking care to keep his body weight off her. She let out another strangled sound, and it hurt like a blow to his gut.
Mikhail leaned down, brushing the sweaty hair off her forehead and cradling her jaw in his hands.
"Anya, Anya," he tried again, his voice a little louder but keeping its soothing tone. "Anya. Wake up."
Anastasia's eyes flung open, a loud gasp escaping her as she sucked in air, her body jerking. She let out a frail cry as she looked around, her vision unfocused and blurry with tears.
Mikhail moved off her and sat next to her on the bed. He forced himself to give her space, even if he struggled to let her go. Anastasia blinked rapidly, her chest heaving as she struggled for composure.
"Mikhail?" Her voice cracked, and she looked confused to see him there.
"It's me," he said, giving her a soft smile, afraid to reach for her. They were both sitting up in bed, but there might as well be a chasm between them.
He fought the instinct to crush her to his chest and lay them both down, desperate to try and take the pain away.
"You left," her voice was distant and small, sounding like a wounded child. "You left. I don't...," she trailed off, knowing she was in no place to be making demands of him. She buried her face in her hands, "Everyone leaves, Mikhail!"
Her frame was wracked with sobs, contorting her body. Mikhail would jump in front of a train to keep her pain at bay.
"What do you mean?" He nudged her gently, and she looked up at him with blotchy cheeks.
"Everyone leaves. My parents don't care. Even the tutors don't last. Alexei stopped coming to see me years ago... everyone leaves."
Everyone in her life has abandoned her. Mikhail twitched with an uneasy energy. When I got close, I said it wasn't enough and left. Fuck. Fuck!
Mikhail sighed. Anastasia stared at him, and the last of his resistance melted away when he met her bright blue eyes. He leaned forward and pulled her into him, lying down on the bed.
Mikhail gently shifted Anastasia until her head rested on his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He couldn’t breathe as he waited for her reaction, waiting for her to scream and push away from him. To declare she was fine and didn't need this from him. He waited, preparing his apologies.
Anastasia sniffled, her head moving back and forth in the smallest of mannerisms as she burrowed closer to him. Her arms went around his neck, and her legs tangled with his, pressing them up against one another until they couldn't tell where one started or the other ended.
They were quiet for a moment, and Anastasia's soft cries started up again. Mikhail rubbed her back gently, pressing soft kisses to her hairline.
"What do you need, Anya?" He murmured gently. "Tell me what you need."
"Hold me tighter," she whispered, looking up at him. "And please don't let go."
Mikhail nodded, sensing how her plea extended far past just their embrace. He obliged, only letting go of her for a second to pull the blankets up, cocooning them.
"Sleep, malyshka," his voice was slow and lingering, sending pleasant shivers down Anastasia's spine, "I'll wake you up before dawn. We'll go back to the palace."
"Together?"
"Together."
Anastasia slept the rest of the night, but Mikhail was wide awake.
He couldn’t possibly sleep, his mind whirring with possibilities.
He didn’t know where they would go from here.
By dawn, he hadn’t figured it out, but true to his word, he woke Anastasia.
They had no extra clothes, but quietly fixed their garments, smoothing down stray hairs to look as presentable as possible.
Mikhail could tell from looking at Anastasia that she was embarrassed. He had caught her in a moment where she was at her most vulnerable, ripped from sleep with terrors from her past chasing her into a bottomless panic.
The past keeps getting in our way. Mikhail chewed on his lip as Anastasia tied up her laces. We can't seem to let it go.
You won't heal from it, is what you mean. Asya's voice rang in Mikhail's head. Sometimes, he heard her so clearly he was convinced she spoke to him from beyond the grave. Knowing his mother, he couldn’t rule it out.
The walk to the palace was silent, a stark contradiction to the mobs of people they’d encountered yesterday. The streets were empty, bathed with the rising sun. They made their way through the sleepy town and to the side of the Winter Palace, to a smaller, less guarded entrance.
The Romanovs were so convinced that the palace servants would be happy to have a job that they wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it.
This arrogance led to a shocking number of unwatched doors, hallways, and palace entrances.
The door remained unwatched and unguarded; anyone could sneak in a cousin, a friend, or a paramour. Or, in this case, the grand duchess.