Chapter 15 #2
“You’re going to kill him,” the tsar’s voice was like a whip. Anastasia could feel it cutting across her face. Her previous stoicism faltered, recollections of the night she killed Asya rushing back to the forefront of her mind.
“I… I will do no such thing.” Anastasia’s voice wavered but did not falter. She dug in her heels, preparing for a physical as well as an emotional attack.
“You will,” the tsar commanded again. “I’ve had enough of these games. You chose to reappear at court. The people demand to know what is to be done with you.”
“What is to be ‘done’ with her?” Mikhail snapped, his hand going up and gently pressing against Anastasia’s back. “She’s a woman, not an object.”
“She is a weapon.” The tsar scoffed. “She will be used as such.” The tsar’s expression was tightly controlled, but there were cracks in the composure. He bounced between rage and deathly calm, and Mikhail studied each face.
“What do you suppose I do?” Anastasia laughed darkly. “I don’t want to kill anyone. I won’t do it. You don’t even—I don’t even—know if that’s possible.”
Anastasia fumbled weakly for an excuse, desperate to make her parents believe her magic had limits. The excuse that her power had limits, that it hadn’t been adequately tested, was running thin.
“You can kill,” the tsar raised an eyebrow. “Or have you forgotten?”
Anastasia’s hands pulled into fists, and she let out a controlled breath. She took a step backward, half expecting Mikhail to abandon her side and rejoin her parents at the reminder. He stood firm, his hand warm as it slid from her back to around her waist.
It was a subtle gesture, but Anastasia could feel her heart racing. His hand on her back had been private, hidden from the tsar and tsarina’s penetrating gaze. As he wrapped an arm around her waist, it was for everyone in the room to see.
“Touching,” the tsar laughed cruelly at the display. “This is not a request. You will marry Ruzsky, and you will kill him.”
“How am I supposed to kill someone?” Anastasia’s voice was equal parts angry and skeptical. “You are skipping over the fact that even if you manage to marry me off to some rival of yours, I can’t and I won’t kill him.”
“Your grace,” one of the doryantsvo’s voices interrupted them. It had a greasy sound to it that reminded Anastasia of rotten fish. The boyar had a jilted way of speaking, summoning courage for every thought.
“It should be quite easy, magic or no, if you are so inclined. A woman of your standing should be very capable of incapacitating a man while he is distracted.”
A tense silence settled over the room. Mikhail’s body stiffened as his grip on Anastasia tightened. Righteous anger was rolling and burning in his chest. The implication was clear; if Anastasia couldn’t get rid of her husband by magic, then bedding him and stabbing him was expecting.
He had already been holding back against the Tsar as they threatened to move Anastasia around like a pawn. His control was beginning to slip as he tried to estimate the prowess of his opponents.
If this man opens his mouth one more time and elaborates on this idea, I will rip his spine from his back.
A lecherous grin slid over the noble’s face while the tsar and the tsarina remained impassive, hardly bothered by the perverted instructions. Mikhail pulled Anastasia behind him, angling his body in front of hers defensively.
“Excuse me?” Anastasia raised an eyebrow, her voice challenging.
Without looking at her, Mikhail knew the fire flaring in her blue eyes. He fought to keep the smirk off his face.
That’s my Anya. You don’t even need me here, do you?
“Your grace,” the old man coughed, shrugging as his eyebrows waggled mockingly, “I’m simply suggesting that if you do not have the power to kill him outright, you might need to fuck your new husband… for the element of surprise, of course.”
“We know what you meant,” Mikhail growled, fighting the urge to flee the room with Anastasia. The tsarina flinched at the crude description but made no noise; the tsar dared to look bored.
Anastasia was surprised he had enough courage to spell it out for her.
Courtiers were always venomous, but they spoke to her as deserving of her station as a grand duchess.
The fact that the boyar was so willing to be crude emphasized how far she had fallen.
Her father turned his head in the subtlety of a nod, urging the man to continue and seemingly permitting him to speak further.
“If you are unwilling or, perhaps, frightened by the idea,” the smile spreading across his face was like snake oil, “There are always ways to practice, your grace.”
Mikhail’s reaction was instantaneous. He could hold it no longer, bursting past Anastasia like a bullet from a gun. He grabbed the man by his collar, holding on tight and looming over him by a head.
Mikhail lifted the man by his shirt and slammed him against the wall. The doryantsvo’s eyes went wide, and he started shaking, kicking his feet as they left the ground.
“Address her one more time,” Mikhail growled, “And I will personally tear you limb from limb for practice.” He cracked the doryantsvo’s head against the wall again, driving the point home.
A painting fell to the floor, the glass and wood shattering as the force ricocheted.
The tsarina shrieked and cowered in a corner, clearing the path between the tsar and Mikhail.
The doryantsvo was a small, older man, but the tsar was still in good shape for all his overconsumption. His perceived control over the situation snapped, and the tsar’s rage came bubbling up towards the surface.
The tsar turned on Mikhail, pulling a pistol from the depths of his jacket while Mikhail was distracted with the doryantsvo.
Anastasia reacted the moment she saw the gun.
She turned on her father, throwing her body weight against him as the shot rang out.
The sound ricocheted off the walls and broke Mikhail’s focus as he dropped the man, who hit the ground like a bag of sand.
“You stupid girl,” the tsar sneered, turning around and striking Anastasia across the cheek. “You will learn to obey me, and I don’t care what it takes!”
Mikhail saw red. He crossed the room in two strides, coiled his hand back, and pummeled the tsar in the face. The man sputtered; he’d never been struck before in his life, and recoiled. The tsar fell to the floor, blinking rapidly as his nose bled down the front of his shirt.
Mikhail was standing above him, his chest heaving and knuckles split, his broad shoulders tensed in a challenge.
“You touch her again,” Mikhail’s voice was fire and brimstone, “and you’ll die.”
The tsarina gasped, shock filling the tense atmosphere. No one ever threatened the tsar and lived to tell about it.
“Mikhail,” Anastasia spoke softly. “I’m okay.” Her voice snapped him out of his haze, and he turned to face her. He studied her, trying to ensure she was okay, but his heart only quickened at the sight. Her cheek was red, her hair mussed, and there was a slight tremble in her hands.
“Anya,” his voice changed into something deep and soft that made Anastasia’s shoulders relax. He walked over to her and gently cradled her face in his hands, cringing when his thumbs smeared some blood on her cheek.
He chuckled and wiped it off with a devilish wink. The little bit of humor in the chaos made Anastasia forget the chaos that they were standing in. “Are you okay?”
Anastasia nodded, the adrenaline beginning to fade as she surveyed the room behind him.
His soothing touch and presence eased her back into the moment, taking away the emotional sting as well as the physical.
The doryantsvo was passed out on the floor, while the other boyar and her mother had fled in the chaos.
The tsar was beginning to stand shakily.
Any remnants of the man she called father were gone, and a furious emperor was in his place.