Chapter 15
Anastasia collapsed against Mikhail’s chest, weeping quietly with a sense of relief that she’d never felt before. Without thinking, they fell into an embrace that, under normal circumstances, was too comfortable for them to accept.
Mikhail’s hand came up and cradled the back of her head, still waiting for his heart to stop racing. Neither of them said anything.
Words had the potential to ruin the moment. Anything they said could shatter the illusion between them. They’d found sanctuary in each other’s arms, and one misspoken sentiment would be all it took to get them back at each other’s throats.
Mikhail struggled to keep his thoughts straight, torn between two loyalties.
He couldn’t deny the instincts threatening to overtake him, the voice in his head telling him to keep Anastasia pressed against his chest forever.
He wanted to destroy her family and anyone who had ever made her feel like she was less than or had tried to diminish her power.
Simultaneously, he still struggled to move on from the past and let go of the hatred he had nurtured for so long.
Mikhail knew Anastasia needed to accept her gifts without fear.
She would have to get over her past to abandon the cage she was raised in—the past holding the death of Asya, still haunting them both.
Until they did that, he knew they’d continue to tear each other apart. They were stuck in a wheel with no clear path forward. How could he think of anything other than keeping her in his arms? He had tasted death, and it was her magic that breathed him back to life.
Her magic gripped him like a lifeline. It felt like her; it was unmistakably Anastasia’s magic. Mikhail stared down death and still wanted that essence to consume him.
Anastasia sniffled and shifted on top of him, her hand coming up to caress his cheek. Mikhail sighed deeply, and his heart clenched. He hated it, but he had to stop them before they went somewhere they couldn’t come back from. Everything was too delicate.
He covered her hand with his and squeezed it, attempting to soften the blow before gently rolling out from underneath her. Mikhail straightened up, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. Anastasia looked at him, the tears drying on her face, hurt and confusion contorting her features.
Mikhail shook his head silently, thinking about what the best course forward was.
“We should both get some sleep. Your Grace.” He tacked on the honorific, driving a wedge of informality between them. Mikhail dipped his chin slightly in Anastasia’s direction and all but ran back to his room.
Anastasia stared after him, too shocked to move, her heart breaking in her chest. The fragile threads of trust between them snapped.
Fools. Asya muttered disapprovingly from somewhere in the ether.
???
Anastasia was awake for the rest of the night, desperately trying to prevent her mind from caving in on itself.
When Mikhail was dying, she’d experienced a new kind of fear.
It was different from anything she’d experienced before, even more vicious and all-consuming.
The idea of waking up the following day without him in her rooms, across the hall, circulating her…
the very idea of that reality made her want to follow him into death.
After he recovered, sitting shell-shocked on the couch, Mikhail had run out of the room. He’d left her for a second time; he made his choice. His actions made it clear that he didn’t want to be near her in the way she craved.
The fragile foundation of trust she had begun to lay for him now lay in fragments.
Anastasia never returned to her bedroom. The next morning, she was still sitting on the couch, hoping—against her better judgment—that Mikhail would come back.
He’s probably still sleeping. It's early. He died last night. I think.
Mikhail was usually an early riser, and he’d yet to emerge. Anastasia was convinced he hated her now and was hiding from her.
Those thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging on her doors, startling Anastasia out of her anxious rumination. She was about to stand when the doors flew open, the impact shaking the windowpanes.
The tsar, the tsarina, and the tsar’s three dvoryanstvo walked in. Anastasia stood, bracing herself as her heart started to race.
She fought the temptation to look over her shoulder at Mikhail’s rooms. Staring down at her parents, she was desperate for his grounding presence beside her. Anastasia steeled her expression and studied their faces. Despite the aggressive entrance, they almost looked remorseful.
“My darling daughter,” the tsarina began, her face contorting in sadness, “We’ve heard what happened.
This must be so traumatic for you.” She sounded like an actress over-delivering her lines, the emotion in her voice cheap and fraudulent.
Anastasia couldn’t remember the last time the tsarina addressed her as ‘daughter.’
Anastasia didn’t respond, praying her hands weren’t visibly shaking. She didn’t know what the tsarina could be referencing until she realized they knew about Mikhail. Even though only Anastasia had witnessed it, they knew, and it sounded like they thought he was dead.
Oh, God. Mikhail. They’re assuming the poison was successful. Do they think it happened at the ball? Are they assuming there are witnesses? They probably saw us both leaving in a hurry. They’re bluffing.
“I’m sorry?” Anastasia cocked her head in mocking confusion. “I don’t know what you heard.” The tsar and tsarina’s facades flickered, but didn’t go out.
“Oh,” the tsarina looked awkwardly at the tsar, “We didn’t want to be the ones to tell you…
” She trailed off, but Anastasia’s father said nothing, leaving the tsarina to explain the situation.
Anastasia was enraged at her parents’ audacity, although it didn’t surprise her.
When the tsarina fumbled over her words, the tsar grunted, begrudgingly stepping in.
“It seems Rasputin met an unfortunate end last night.” The tsar’s political chagrin was in full swing. “I’m terribly sorry. I believe you two were close. Maybe it is for the best.”
Anastasia gritted her teeth, wondering how far they were going to take this charade.
She hated hearing that name, now understanding why Mikhail protested it so strongly.
It was reminiscent of the person the monastery tried to shape him into; no longer Asya’s son, the palace servant, but another corrupt clergy member at the palace’s bidding.
Anastasia sat back down in shock, looking up at her parents with a confused and twisted expression, but it wasn’t the news that surprised her.
Her parents were here, once again in her rooms with their lapdog dvoryanstvo, attempting to manipulate her.
They all stared at Anastasia, assuming her disbelief was concerning Mikhail’s death.
She chewed at her fingernail, attempting not to be overwhelmed. Slowly, she was beginning to realize how many times her father had tried to manipulate her in her past.
“It seems I had a very eventful evening.”
Mikhail’s voice cut through the tension.
Every head snapped in the direction of his voice, watching as he stepped out of his bedroom.
Anastasia couldn’t keep her eyes off Mikhail, overjoyed to see him standing, breathing—alive.
As tempting as it was to take in the shock on her parents’ faces, she was glued to him.
He looked well-rested, even if his hair was half-up and his shirt was rumpled from sleep. Anastasia couldn’t fight the desire to push him into his room and abandon the outside world forever. Mikhail stood there defiantly, crossing his arms over his broad chest, staring down at her parents.
Her parents… the tsar and tsarina of all Russia.
Anastasia, feeling emboldened by Mikhail’s presence at her back, stood slowly and finally turned to face them.
Her mother looked terrified, as if she were staring at a ghost. The tsarina was prone to the mystical and magical, more inclined to believe that Mikhail had been resurrected than to accept that their attempted murder had failed.
The tsar’s face darkened for only a second before evening out into a twisted stoicism, a gift he had honed over the years as a tyrant.
The dvoryanstvo were whispering to each other, and one slipped out the door.
Before he’d reached the end of the hallway, he was gossiping about the story of Rasputin’s ‘dark magic resurrection’.
The tsar’s propaganda magic was in full effect without lifting a finger.
Most important was the name. It was much easier to spin stories about a mystical priest than a former palace servant.
“Your affinity for political assassinations is as strong as ever,” Anastasia stared at her father, refusing to back down under his unholy glare.
“It seems as if your efficacy may be slipping, though. I do hope it is not the sign of a frail mind.” Her voice grew louder.
Somewhere, in the back of her head, even Anastasia couldn’t believe the way she was talking to her father.
The tsar’s response was cold. It did not shake with anger, frustration, or malice; it was iron-clad in its resolution. It was the sound of a command that made men weep with finality. He stared down at his daughter with the face he used against his own enemies.
Mikhail moved instinctively when he saw the tsar’s face, silently slipping around the couch and standing behind Anastasia.
“You will be wed,” the tsar was emotionless in his declaration, “to Nikolai Ruzsky. I have a suspicion that Ruzsky, despite being a good general, has become rather nearsighted on our goals as of late.”
Anastasia’s stomach started sinking, the horrific implications of a marriage to her father’s older comrade running through her head.
“What?” Her voice was equally cold and detached as she stared down the tsar in return. “Am I to be some distracting new doll for him?”