Chapter 23
It was wrong to be back in the Winter Palace. Earlier that same day, Anastasia had openly attacked the tsar. There was no doubt that the tsar was behind the assassination attempt on Mikhail.
They were sitting in front of the fireplace, where Anastasia fell asleep in Mikhail’s lap. He went over their options in his head, but there weren’t many.
They needed to seek out the leader of the resistance, Ruzsky, and hopefully join forces. He would be able to offer them more manpower or, at the very least, a safehouse. Mikhail understood Anastasia didn’t want to leave the palace to protect the people, but they were sitting ducks.
“Anya,” Mikhail murmured, shaking her awake. “We need to talk, malyshka.” He waited until her eyes blinked open and she sat up, a confused, sleepy look on her face.
“What you did today,” he sighed, knowing the conversation was not going to end well. “You can’t do it again.”
Anastasia tensed, sitting straight as her back went as firm as a rod. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t do it. You can’t stop, ever. You can’t turn back for me, Anya.” His chest hurt as he got the words out.
“Why the fuck wouldn’t I? What are you trying to say?” Anastasia crossed her arms over her chest.
“It isn’t best for either of us. This isn’t going to be the last attack we face, and if we end up in trouble again, you need to keep moving. You can’t prioritize me like you did today.”
“Do you not want me to turn back for you?” Anastasia’s blood went cold.
The thought of rejection, of broken trust, crept back into her mind and settled in. Mikhail wanted to scream. Anastasia still defaulted to mistrust of him. She still struggled to believe he wanted her the way he did.
“No, no, no,” he sighed and shook his head, adjusting her in his lap. “Don’t go there, Anya. I’m begging you to stop doing this. Trust me when I say I love you.” Anastasia nodded, attempting to pull her thoughts back. Mikhail continued.
“I feel this way because of how much I care about you. I need you to look after yourself. I couldn’t watch you die,” he said quietly, dropping his lips to her ear as if he could speak the words into her bones. “And I love you. Now, I need you to believe two things. Can you do that? Just two.”
Anastasia nodded, staring straight ahead as his voice did wicked things to her.
“I need you to believe that you can do it. Whatever it is, whatever happens. Whomever you’re with. Can you do that for me?”
Anastasia nodded her head, and Mikhail shook his. “Not good enough. Say it out loud.”
“I believe that I can do it.”
“Whatever it is?”
“Whatever it is.”
“Good girl,” Mikhail squeezed her body once more, pressing a kiss to her neck. “Now, the second part. I need you to believe that I love you, Anya. More than anything in the world. Can you please believe that? Can you trust me?”
Anastasia nodded, more resolute this time. She pulled away from him slightly, looking up into his eyes. He saw the fire there as she nodded again.
“I trust you. I believe you.” For the very first time, there was no hesitation in her voice as she stared at him. “I love you.”
Mikhail grinned, capturing her mouth in a kiss. One of his hands began to drift down her leg, searching for the end of her skirts.
Suddenly, the doors to Anastasia’s rooms burst open. The two ripped apart from one another, but Anastasia didn’t leave Mikhail’s lap. They looked up as their arms tightened around the other. Anastasia stifled a gasp.
The tsar was standing in the middle of the doorway. His calm expression was more terrifying than any look of rage. Anastasia could hear the boots in the hallway before they appeared, a shiver going up her spine. The next moment, a stream of soldiers began pouring into the room.
Anastasia and Mikhail struggled to separate their limbs, jumping to their feet on high alert. Soldier after soldier filed in and began lining up around the walls. They were surrounded. They looked around, unable to find a single gap in their lines or any weak spots.
Anastasia slowly turned her head towards her father, raising her chin and meeting his stoic stare.
“Moi tsar.” Anastasia’s voice was emotionless. The tsar chuckled. It was a sick sound, the sound of a man convinced he’d already won.
“I see you’re still here,” the tsar said, looking at Mikhail. “That’s contrary to the reports that I had received.”
“No thanks to you.” Mikhail’s body was tense, his hands forming fists at his sides.
“I only retaliated in kind.” He waved his hand in the air as though he was brushing off the thought. He turned his attention to Anastasia. “You fired first.”
“I did not,” she protested, taking a step towards her father. “Your men were brutalizing civilians, all so you could go for a scenic drive. How did the city look? Did you see the same people starving that I did?”
The tsar ignored Anastasia’s questions. “There were people in the road. What kind of city planning is that?”
“City planning?” Anastasia knew the tsar was delusional, but her shock at his carefree attitude was never-ending. “Truly. You see hungry people in the streets of St. Petersburg, and that is what you have to say?”
“I don’t want to get into politics.” The tsar looked out the window, every tiny action conveying his bored uninterest.
“That’s rich coming from a tsar.” Anastasia pushed him further. For a moment, the facade cracked, and his face seemed to twitch. He quickly recovered and kept talking.
“Like I was saying. I don’t want to get into politics. I want to discuss, let’s say, the state of our familial affairs. You’ve openly campaigned against me now. This changes your options quite a bit.”
“Bold of you to say I’ve had options.” Anastasia quipped, looking pointedly at all the guards surrounding them.
“You have,” the tsar took a few more steps into the room.
The soldiers shut the doors behind him. The sound of the doors shutting felt like a gunshot.
“If you didn’t like your options, that’s a different story.
Now, you’ve put me in a position where there are very few options for me, as a father. Which is very upsetting.”
“Yes, I’d imagine you’re very torn up.”
“Anastasia,” he snapped, his fists tensing at his sides. “You will either publicly recant, take communion, and kiss my ring—”
“I would rather die!” Anastasia cut him off, her voice sharp.
The tsar chuckled and took a seat, unbuttoning his jacket, far too relaxed for this conversation.
“Dying is your second option.” A conniving grin spread over his face.
Mikhail let out an angry sound of outrage, ready to attack the tsar, but Anastasia held up her hand.
It stopped Mikhail in his tracks. She was silent as the tsar continued.
“I will see you take communion and swear your fealty to God and Russia. Or you will be publicly executed. I do so hope you choose the former. Your gifts might still prove very useful.”
Mikhail moved closer to Anastasia at the tsar’s mention of her execution. His constant presence at her back was the most reliable thing she’d ever experienced; it emboldened her against her father.
“I would never use my magic to help you.” Anastasia’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
The room was crowded with soldiers, as still as the décor. They blended in with their sabers and ornamentation, next to the chandeliers and vases. Except Anastasia knew they were not to be trifled with.
The men would all move on the tsar’s command. Those sabers and guns were heavy, inlaid with gold, but they’d still be used against them. The tsar sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, deeply disappointed.
“I really would beg you to reconsider.”
“Don’t waste your breath,” Mikhail cut in, feeling his blood pressure rising as he stared at the tsar in front of him. He hadn’t forgotten how the man nearly managed to rip their relationship apart in an afternoon.
“What is your plan, exactly?” The tsar tilted his head to the side and looked at Mikhail in challenge.
“Anastasia is barely known outside of a few streets of St. Petersburg. You have developed quite a fascinating reputation, Rasputin,” a slow smile spread across his face.
“I suppose I had something to do with that.”
“It doesn’t matter what the people think of me,” Mikhail shook his head. “All that matters is your grip on their livelihoods loosens. We don’t care what that looks like.”
“That’s your problem, young man,” the tsar leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee. Mikhail and Anastasia stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“You have no vision,” he continued, “and you’re much too flexible. A man’s got to have a plan!” The tsar made a mock toast towards Mikhail. His stomach rolled.
The tsar was the picture of everything Mikhail had grown to hate. The opulence, the ultimate quest for power, his unquenched thirst for blood, guts, and glory. He had twisted Anastasia’s reality until she spent most of her adult life impoverished, captive in the same set of rooms.
For the tsar’s attacks against Anastasia alone, the hair on the back of his neck rose, and his hands clenched into fists.
If Mikhail thought he had an opening to attack the tsar before the soldiers could get in a shot, he’d take it.
If he had to choke the life out of the tsar with his bare hands, he would.
The tsar saw Mikhail’s face and chuckled. Anastasia didn’t like the way her father eyed him. Mikhail had spent enough of his life being pushed around by cruel men and had fought his way out of every situation they had put him in.
Anastasia scanned the room with a subtle eye, trying to determine if she had an opening to take out her father before the guards could shoot. If she had to choke the life out of the tsar with her magic, she would.
The tsar’s laugh grew louder until it was manic. He slapped his hands together in a booming clap, bringing both Anastasia’s and Mikhail’s attention back to him.