Chapter 14 #3
Mikhail watched Anastasia make her rounds, every interaction calculated. The tsar and tsarina were too image-obsessed to try anything in the middle of the ball, but it didn’t keep Mikhail from searching for Anastasia’s face whenever he thought her father swayed a little too close to her.
Anastasia, blissfully unaware of the tsar, eyed every fan in the room aimed at Mikhail. She used hers to tell the other women to fuck off. It served a dual purpose. People could assume whatever they wanted about Anastasia and Mikhail’s relationship, but it got them talking.
The masquerade balls usually carried on into the next morning, but Anastasia was starting to fade after midnight. Most of the patrons were now too drunk to hold a conversation, making their efforts to gain favor and allies pointless. No one would remember much for the rest of the evening.
She hoped she’d made a good impression on everyone she met. Her eyes started scanning the room, wondering if she should wait for Mikhail or try to find him before leaving.
We arrived together. That was the purpose. We didn’t say anything about leaving together. Anastasia’s thoughts were a muddled mess, refusing to sort through her feelings.
It was a simple enough question, but she was paralyzed with indecision. After fruitlessly scanning over the masses, she finally laid eyes on Mikhail. A beautiful brunette holding a small dog was attempting to cuddle up next to him on a settee.
He doesn’t seem bothered by her at all, does he? No, of course not. You’re the only one he despises, no matter how many excuses he makes to touch you.
Anastasia turned around as quickly as her heavy gown would allow, rushing out of the ballroom and into the dark hallways. Hot tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she told herself it was exhaustion.
On the other side of the dance floor, Anastasia’s retreating gown caught the light like a shooting star, catching Mikhail’s attention. Maybe no one else could see it, but behind the stoic composure on her face, he swore he saw the threat of tears.
Without thinking or letting himself debate over his heart and his head, he stood up to go after her. He started excusing himself from the brunette’s company—he hadn’t learned her name—and rushed through the crowds of guests after Anastasia.
When he caught up with her down the hall, Anastasia made a point of avoiding eye contact with him, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
“Anya, stop,” Mikhail’s brow furrowed. He stepped in front of her, halting her process, and grabbed her shoulders.
Immediately, his mind began to race with all of the horrible possibilities.
There had been plenty of people in the ballroom who wished Anastasia had never shown her face.
“What’s wrong? Did your father say something?
” He scanned her face, looking for signs of distress.
“What did I say about calling me that?” Anastasia huffed, pushing his hands off her and nudging past him toward her rooms. “I’m surprised you even saw me leave.”
“What does that mean?” Mikhail froze, a confused look on his face, before he trailed after Anastasia.
“You seemed perfectly content where you were.” Anastasia’s shoulders were drawn back, her voice clipped when she spoke to him. She was still avoiding eye contact, gazing at the artwork on the walls.
“Is that what this is about?” Mikhail scoffed. “You’re jealous?” A tiny part of him, that admittedly wasn’t very evolved, loved the idea she was jealous of his attentions.
“No!” Anastasia’s denial was too adamant. They reached the doors to her suite, and she tossed them open, storming inside like a bat out of hell. Mikhail’s hands were pulled into fists at his sides as he forced himself to breathe slowly. Only Anastasia could make him lose his temper so quickly.
Anastasia started pulling off her jewelry, feeling no better than a girlish fool.
In her youth, she’d overhear the chambermaids fussing about boys and casual flirtations.
She had once judged them, but now, she turned that introspection on herself.
Whatever thoughts she was having about Mikhail, they were child’s play.
She kicked off her shoes and began furiously ripping out her hairpins.
She hissed in pain when they started to snag, but didn’t slow down her movements.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mikhail rushed over to her, grabbing her wrists. “Stop that! What has gotten into you? You’re the one who said that I should go as your tutor.” He said the last word like it was a curse, still trying to catch Anastasia’s gaze.
“You’re the one who can’t stop living in the past!” Anastasia snapped, fighting to get her wrists free. The last thing she wanted was to have this conversation with Mikhail.
“Oh, right,” Mikhail backed Anastasia up until her legs met the couch, forcing her to sit.
He towered over her, livid that they were back in the same conversation they’d had a hundred times.
“Excuse the fuck out of me for not being over the fact that my mother died.” Mikhail tripped over his words, his heart skipping a beat.
His stomach turned over nervously, and he realized he didn’t have the heart to accuse Anastasia of Asya’s death anymore.
“You don’t trust me,” Anastasia said, the pain in her voice evident. She brought her foot up to kick Mikhail in the groin and barely missed.
“For fuck’s sake, Anastasia!” Mikhail grunted, releasing her wrists and taking a few steps back. “What in the seven hells…” he trailed off, rubbing his hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Anastasia watched in horror as the color started to drain from Mikhail’s complexion. His breathing began to come in short pants, and his hands flew to his stomach, grunting as if in pain. His entire countenance was shifting, the metamorphosis haunting to watch.
“Mikhail?!” Anastasia ran to him, her arms guiding him to take her place on the couch. He sat down, failing to suppress a moan as his expression contorted in agony. His face was turning red, and sweat was gathering on his brow.
“Anya,” his voice sounded parched. “The masquerade.” In a matter of minutes, he looked like a man on death’s door, and Anastasia’s hands were shaking with nerves.
If something were to happen to Mikhail, if he were sick, no one in the palace would be able to treat him without the tsar’s express permission.
Anastasia knew they wouldn’t get it. Anastasia gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as a sick realization dawned on her.
The only thing the courtiers loved more than a political hanging was poison.
And Mikhail had clearly ingested something that didn’t agree with him.
“What do I do? What should I do?” Anastasia dropped to her knees and cradled Mikhail’s face, holding his head up and dabbing at the sweat dripping down his forehead.
“Anya,” his voice cracked, and he leaned into her touch. Mikhail’s eyes fluttered closed; his breath slowed down until Anastasia could barely see any movement in his chest.
“No!” Anastasia screamed, gently leaning his head back on the couch cushions.
“No, no, no!” She started beating her fists against his chest, in some futile hope she could knock the poison from his body.
Mikhail’s entire body seized and trembled, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath before his body went lax.
Anastasia’s entire existence boiled down to the sight of Mikhail in front of her. She ignored the piercing sound of her own cries and wiped at the tears obscuring her vision. Her fists crashed down on his body repeatedly, the gemstones sewn into her sleeves snagging on the threads in his shirt.
“Don’t leave me!” Anastasia wept, the sound of her screams haunted and broken.
“I don’t know how to do this without you, Mikhail.
” She dropped her head on his chest. Her hands went to the golden cuffs on his arms, ripping them off, unable to stare at the double-headed eagle.
“I don’t want to do it without you. How dare you leave, too!
” She sobbed, throwing her body over his as golden fire flooded her fingertips.
It exploded out of her as potent as she had ever seen it; all the lights exploded in the room. The flames in the fireplace leaped even higher, threatening to spill out of the hearth.
Anastasia’s magic poured out of her and covered Mikhail’s body.
She watched from the floor next to him, unable to move.
It circled him once, twice, and wrapped around his stomach.
The golden light undulated over him. Anastasia refused to breathe, refused to hope, keeping her eyes on him.
Without warning, Mikhail rushed back to consciousness, sitting straight up and sucking in a sharp gasp of air.
His body twitched, and he reached out for Anastasia, falling back against the couch cushions again, heavy breaths shaking his chest. Sweat was dripping down his neck, and the fine material of his clothes was soaked through.
“Mikhail?” Anastasia gasped, her heart leaping in her chest. She held her breath, afraid to believe he was okay. She was nervous to touch him or look at him for too long, as though the slightest movement could disturb the delicate balance.
Mikhail forced himself back into a sitting position, grunting like it took an immense amount of strength. He started blinking to clear his vision, and his breathing leveled out slightly before he leaned over the chair's arm and dry-heaved.
Anastasia waited until he was done, her patience spent, and climbed up next to him on the chaise. Anastasia sat between his legs, still wiping at her tears, and began rubbing the back of his hand with soothing ministrations.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, still afraid to speak too loudly. Her chest was heaving with the remnants of her sobs. The anger between them had dissipated entirely, and the argument they were in the middle of had been forgotten.
Mikhail’s face was pale as he stared up at her, not making a sound. Neither of them had an explanation for what happened. Anastasia’s magic had never quite manifested in that way before. The kindling of intimacy between them was growing with every passing moment, but they didn’t mention it.
“Well,” Mikhail’s voice sounded wrecked, “It seems that you can save a life, Anya.”