Chapter 22 #2
The magic held. Then, another shot. Mikhail flinched at the sound.
He was standing out in the open, with no other cover than Anastasia’s power over him.
He held his breath, closing his eyes. He was the very definition of a sitting duck.
Another thirty seconds passed, and they were the longest of Mikhail’s life.
He waited for the pain, for the burning sensation to tell his brain he’d been hit.
Another thirty seconds. He flickered his eyes open—there was no pain. But there was a second gunshot, then a third.
My god, Anastasia… What is this? Mikhail was too stunned to move, wrapping herself in a shield of her own creation. The bullets were deflecting off her magic, one by one, as they increased in speed. Mikhail was standing in the middle of a firestorm, completely untouched.
“Mikhail!” Anastasia’s voice sounded underwater. “Run, you idiot!” Her voice commanded him, “I can’t hold this for long!” Mikhail snapped out of his wonderment and bolted toward Anastasia as fast as he could.
They were vulnerable out here like this, and Anastasia was a static target when using her magic. He could see her tight expression, her nose beginning to bleed again, as he got closer.
Two blocks left.
One.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the golden light around Mikhail flickered out. He didn’t stop running.
As his golden-filtered vision cleared, he cursed. He was hurtling towards Anastasia, only a block away at the gates of the Winter Palace, and there was a knife to her neck. An imperial guardsman was standing behind her, holding her hands back while the blade glinted in the late evening light.
“No, Mikhail!” Anastasia screamed, wincing as her shout caused the blade to dig into her skin. She wanted him to take cover, to hide, to run in a confusing pattern. He needed to do anything other than run at her in a straight line.
There was another gunshot. It had a ring of finality to it, even though it sounded no different than the others.
Mikhail stumbled, falling. Anastasia let out a heart-wrenching cry, fighting harder against her captor, knife be damned.
But as quickly as he’d emerged from the darkness, he disappeared. She was free.
Once Mikhail had been shot, their objective was complete. The attackers sank back into the darkness, rifles stowed, knives sheathed.
Anastasia raced towards Mikhail’s motionless body, face down on the road. She was losing track of the number of times she stared death in the face. It didn’t get any easier, and the idea of a future without him was no less terrifying.
“No, no, no,” she fell on her knees, her hands shaking his shoulders, trying to wake him up.
She struggled to turn his massive body over, grunting with effort, her eyes scanning over him. Magic lit up her hands. She was desperate to try and find the offending bullet, to rip it from his body and wrestle him back from the grim reaper.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She cursed as her hands ran over him. She couldn’t see where he was shot, and she began to panic. Anastasia’s hands were shaking, and she had to keep wiping at her eyes to see.
“Mikhail,” she sobbed, grabbing his face and leaning over him, “Where is it? Where did they shoot you? Where, where, where? I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it.” She stopped, nearly screaming in relief when Mikhail’s eyes blinked open. He grabbed her wrists.
“Ssh, Anya,” his voice was muted and quick. “Come on. Let’s get out of the street. Hurry now.” He hauled himself up to his feet almost immediately, leaving Anastasia blinking through the remnants of her tears, kneeling on the ground.
“Were you playing dead?”
Mikhail helped Anastasia to her feet. She was too stunned to resist him, letting him guide her body and tell her what to do. He wrapped an arm around her protectively and walked the remaining few feet to the palace gate.
They slipped inside, Anastasia walking as if she were comatose. The shock written on her face was palpable. She was numb as she watched on, Mikhail leading her towards the door. She followed him inside, not bothering to notice they had been left alone.
Back in her rooms, Mikhail went straight to the fireplace and stoked it. He turned around to see Anastasia still frozen by the door.
“Anya,” he said quietly, moving slowly as if she were a spooked animal. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I had to give them what they wanted to make him let go of you.”
Anastasia nodded dumbly, her face incredibly pale. When she said nothing, Mikhail moved forward a few more steps, dropping his voice low to a tone that she had never heard him take outside her rooms.
“I was faking it,” he said softly, closing the gap between them. “I’m alive. I’m right here.”
Mikhail grabbed Anastasia’s hands and gently tugged her towards the center of the room. He sat down in an oversized chair in front of the fireplace, pulling Anastasia into his lap.
She fell into him without hesitation, curling her body around his and tucking her head into the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped around her, rubbing up and down her back and periodically squeezing her tightly. He waited as the tension in her body released, kissing her forehead.
As soon as he did, she let out a soft cry. The tears came quickly and suddenly, and her breath struggled to keep up. Mikhail sat with her for as long as she needed, letting her acclimate. She no longer needed to grieve him, but he held her as she saw it through.
“Here,” he whispered. He grabbed her hand and brought it to his chest, sliding the collar of his shirt to the side. He placed her hand on his heart.
“It’s beating, Anya,” he kissed her softly, coaxingly. “It’s beating for you.”