Chapter 19 #2
Anastasia’s powers were a new mystery every day. They were inherently hers. There was nothing Mikhail could truly do to control them or change her. Every spark, every flicker, it was Anya. His Anya. That’s what he loved about it.
The only thing she needed to step into the full extent of the magic in her veins was an unwavering sense of identity. The rest seemed to come to her as easily as breathing.
Mikhail, despite not being a real tutor or priest at all, was ironically the first person to teach Anastasia anything about her magic. All he had to do was show her a mirror unto herself.
And yes, sometimes that involved a little bit of antagonizing, but it invoked the most significant response from her.
If Mikhail had to spend a little bit of time making her angry enough to pull at the cage she was in, he was more than happy to do it.
She was able to discover who she was beyond the Winter Palace or the label of grand duchess.
Anastasia stirred. She was blissfully relaxed, her body feeling soft and languid.
She was tangled up in Mikhail’s arms, and the sensation was enough for her to reconsider her stance on religion.
Anastasia could never remember a time she’d been held like this before, like she was something worth protecting.
She had half a mind never to leave Mikhail’s arms.
Her magic never flowed as easily as when she was around him, but it was only because of the support she felt when he stood behind her. Mikhail couldn’t do anything directly for her; at the end of the day, she’d always had the capacity for such power. He pointed her in the direction of herself.
“Mikhail,” Anastasia’s voice was sleepy as she reached up and stroked his face, “Do you think we’re on borrowed time?”
She hated to ask the question.
For once, their relationship was the foundation beneath her feet, while everything else began to crumble. It was creeping in on her, threatening to steal away these moments of peace and clarity she was so desperate for after a lifetime of chaos.
“No,” Mikhail shook his head, kissing her forehead and stroking an idle hand up her arm. “I don’t. I think we finally have a chance.”
“How can you say that?” Anastasia looked him in the eye. “We’re sitting in The Winter Palace, for God’s sake.”
“Anya,” Mikhail said softly, “I know you’re frightened. That’s okay, because I am, too. You have got to get away from this fear of your father. This fear of who you are. That will end this battle before we even go head-to-head with the tsar.”
“No,” she shook her head, “I’m one person! You can’t put this all on me.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Mikhail sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. The conversation was not going in the direction he had planned. “You need to know who you are, or other people are going to tell you instead.”
“People like my father,” Anastasia muttered, years’ worth of pain etched into her features.
“Look at me,” Mikhail said softly, hooking his fingers under her chin and guiding her, “Do you know who you are, Anya?”
Anastasia sighed, her pulse rising. “Why don’t you remind me?”
“No,” he shook his head softly, “You must do it. You must know who you are beyond a shadow of a doubt, do you understand?”
Anastasia groaned before squirming uncomfortably and moving a little farther away from Mikhail. Her expression sobered, something written across her features that Mikhail couldn’t quite decipher. He cursed under his breath, frustrated that once again, saying the wrong thing ruined the moment.
“Anya,” he chided, “What’s that expression on your face? Tell me.”
“No,” she tried to move past it. “Let’s just forget that I brought anything up.”
“Let’s not,” he said, kissing her again. She tried, and promptly failed, to stifle a smile when his beard brushed against her skin. “Tell me.”
Anastasia said nothing, and it suddenly dawned on Mikhail. Anastasia’s entire life had been full of family members, tutors, priests, and staff, all sent to capture her secrets and learn how she ticked—had anyone asked her to trust herself and meant it?
They had just gotten over themselves enough to admit they loved one another. He knew she trusted him, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with it. She’d faced many horrors in her life, and intimacy had a way of adding itself to the list.
Mikhail did the only thing he could do. He shifted his body until he was wrapped around her like a blanket, capturing her in his arms.
“Anya,” his voice was low and sultry, “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?” His hands began to gently run down her ribcage, attempting to soothe her through his ministrations.
“Are you trying to seduce me into being vulnerable with you right now?” Anastasia grunted, trying to avoid eye contact. There was already a lift in her voice that implied it was working.
“Technically, I’ve already seduced you. Let the record show that.” Mikhail smirked, overly confident.
“Alright, yes,” Anastasia couldn’t stop laughing a little, “You’re avoiding the question, which is very damning.”
“Fine,” Mikhail let out an exaggerated groan, “Yes. I’m trying to seduce you into being vulnerable with me. Is it working?”
Anastasia sighed, leaning back against him and letting her hands tangle in his hair. “Well, I am a sucker for men with hair long enough to braid.” There was a teasing lilt to her voice, and Mikhail wanted to make sure it never left.
“You love it,” he smiled down at her, kissing her nose.
“Alright,” Anastasia sighed, looking away, “Mikhail, I feel like a burden. Every step of the way, I feel like I need you behind me, and I can’t stand it.” All of the words came rushing out of her at once, her cheeks flushing red in embarrassment.
“You can’t stand what exactly?” Mikhail was utterly thrown for a loop by her confession, but he desperately wanted to make sure that she kept sharing. “All of your magic, all of it, that’s all you, Anastasia. Can’t you see that?”
“I can’t do it without you! You don’t feel like you’re stuck following around some helpless Romanova who doesn’t know how to use her own magic?” Her voice escalated. Mikhail could see fear flooding her eyes.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Mikhail shook his head, getting ready to cut off her derailed train of thought. He maneuvered her around, so there was no avoiding his eye contact.
“You can use your magic without me. You have before. You’ve used it to save me when I was entirely indisposed. You helped those people in the city without even looking at me. You need a little reminding of who you are. Everyone needs that sometimes.”
“I should know that by now. I shouldn’t need you reminding me constantly,” Anastasia’s voice hitched as she tried to stave off tears. The last thing she wanted to do was start crying; she was already feeling like a child who needed constant tending.
“Anya,” Mikhail’s hands cupped her face, “Look at me. You have needs. You’re a person. You’ve been through trauma, and you need a little reminding of who you are. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No, stop saying things like that.” She squirmed, the conversation veering towards an emotional vulnerability she was terrified to approach.
“I won’t,” Mikhail refused. “You’re human. And what? You feel bad because it’s nice to have support? My sweet Anya,” he dropped his voice low and whispered the words directly in her ear, just for her, “You’ve lived for so long without anyone supporting you, you don’t know how to accept it.”
Anastasia’s resolve broke. She started crying as soon as the words were out of his mouth. She buried her head in his chest, and he continued soothing her, rubbing his hands up and down her back, over the scars she was once too scared to let him see.
They stayed like that for a while. Mikhail refused to give her any space and wouldn’t let her turn away from him.
Once Anastasia calmed down, he gently wiped away the last of her tears.
“Come on now,” he said softly, his smile encouraging, “Tell me who you are, Anya.”
Anastasia looked up at him, a slow flame licking at her pupils. “I am Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova,” her voice was firm.
“What do you want to do, your grace?”
“I am Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova,” she repeated, her voice louder now, “I’m going after my father with my magic.”