Chapter 20 #2
Anastasia’s anger was quickly dissipating as her mind began to fracture, her power flickering off and on in her fingertips like a lightbulb on its last legs.
A cold sensation crept up the back of her spine while her face flushed with heat, a pit beginning to spin in her stomach that made her want to be violently ill.
No… no… no… stupid… stupid… stupid… stupid girl… stupid… stupid… so stupid…
“Anastasia,” Mikhail’s voice was firm. He bent down on one knee in front of her, grabbing her hands. Anastasia didn’t realize she was speaking out loud. “Stop it. Stop it right now. It’s not true.”
“So stupid,” Anastasia ripped her hands from his grip and buried her face.
“I’m so fucking stupid! I fell for it. How could I believe that anything, anyone, my parents sent to me wasn’t part of a plot!
” Her whole body was quaking with sobs, while her mind started to run through everything Mikhail had ever said to her.
“No,” Mikhail placed his hands on Anastasia’s shoulders and turned her until she was facing him. “It’s a lie! I meant every word. This, us, it’s real, Anastasia, it’s real.”
“Did you get what you wanted?” Anastasia tried to sound unbothered, but her voice hitched, and her body betrayed her.
She was pushing against his chest with all her might, desperate to get away.
Her magic was sparking like a forge, flickers of power spinning around them until it started to singe Mikhail’s robes.
“Burn me, Anya,” he said stoically, barely even flinching as the sparks spread across his chest. “Burn me alive if you have to.” Her magic had always been benign, disappearing like snow, but now, with the force of her anger, it raged.
“Stop!” Anastasia screamed as loud as she could, a wretched and terrifying sound, and her voice cut out nearly halfway through. She was openly sobbing, her tears falling into her burning palms and turning to smoke.
“How dare you! Did you get what you wanted? Did you get my fucking magic, you—” Her screams cut her off, the feeling of her chest physically ready to heave in two overwhelming her, taking away Anastasia’s ability to speak.
“It’s not a lie!” Mikhail was frantic, his movements frenetic as adrenaline dumped into his system.
His hands found Anastasia’s wrists, and he tried to keep her from hurting herself.
“I mean it. You can end me, set me on fire if you must, but don’t you ever believe for a second you can’t trust me. I love you!”
“S-stop,” Anastasia tried to get away from his touch, the magic ebbing and flowing down her arms. “You’re so awful. This is so cruel of you.”
Mikhail’s anger was rising as he backed away. His shoulders were nearly shaking, and he pulled at his hair until it hurt. Every ounce of him was ready for war, but he didn’t know who to fight.
Sparks of Anastasia’s magic were flying in the air, blowing paintings off the wall and flickering around the remnants of their dinner.
Mikhail barely noticed the few embers that were still latched onto his clothes. He could’ve been on fire, and he wouldn’t feel a thing; he stared at the woman he loved, watching her destroy herself with fear.
“Anya.”
Anastasia jumped up from her seat, the heat of shame turning to the ice of rejection in her veins. “Don’t fucking call me that, Rasputin.”
Her voice was like stone.
Mikhail stopped.
They stared at one another, the past crawling its way through the sparks and the floorboards to drag them both to hell.
“That’s not my name,” Mikhail’s voice was devoid of emotion. He tried to remind himself she was upset and not thinking clearly, but the use of that name sent him straight to the edge.
“Is ‘Rasputin’ only for my mother to use?”
“You don’t call me that,” he yelled, “I wouldn’t respond to it when the priest beat me, and I won’t respond to it when you say it. You’re hurting, but you don’t have to be. You’re choosing this!”
“Why would I choose this? I love you!” She cried, “I don’t want to anymore, but congratulations, your con worked perfectly.” The wind picked up inside the boarding house, spinning around Anastasia’s skirt as her fury manifested in the atmosphere.
“Did you ever stop to think,” Mikhail growled, his voice dark and domineering, “That it isn’t exactly easy for me to trust either?”
The simple question made Anastasia’s mind come to a screeching halt. She’d been blind to everything except her fear and hadn’t considered how difficult this would be for Mikhail, too. It was self-centered at best and cruel at worst.
“Oh God,” she gasped quietly, her hand going up and covering her mouth.
“I love you,” Mikhail choked out, fighting back his own frustrated tears, “And I had to get over the idea of hating myself for falling in love with someone I had spent decades learning to despise. Anastasia, please.”
Mikhail dropped to his knees, and Anastasia let out a choked series of gasps, trying rapidly to blink away tears. “This is a lie. It’s the tsar, it has to be.”
Anastasia’s clarity came crashing through her like a battering ram, and she realized how painfully obvious it was that this was a ploy. She let herself descend immediately into her fears and pushed Mikhail to the limit in the process.
Anastasia lunged into Mikhail’s arms. He let out a strangled cry of relief as she buried her head in the crook of his neck.
“I’m so sorry,” she was sobbing, the strength of her cries shaking her entire body as she brushed the remaining sparks off him. “I love you.” She repeated it over and over again, needing to hear it aloud as much as Mikhail did.
Mikhail sank against the wall behind him, scooping Anastasia into his arms and holding her to his chest. They sat there until they caught their breath, drying each other’s tears and taking turns petting and fretting over one another. They were almost too embarrassed to speak.
“My Mikhail,” Anastasia’s voice was soft as she sat up a little straighter, cradling his face in her hands. Her fingers brushed against the stress lines around his eyes and forehead as she kissed him repeatedly. “You’ll never be the person they paint you to be. Ever.”
They both knew what she meant. The identity he fought his whole adult life against; he would never be ‘Rasputin,’ this rumored devil, a concoction of the tsar’s propaganda machine.
He was Mikhail, son of Asya, who worked in the palace alongside her until that fateful day.
Anastasia leaned her cheek against his, her hand pushing some of the hair out of his eyes.
“I’ll always choose you,” she whispered, as if it were a vow. “May nothing separate us.”
Mikhail let a soft smile overtake him, enjoying the soft touches and pieces of affection he knew were hard-won from her.
“I think that is the wisest thing you’ve ever said.”