Chapter 23 #2
“How adorable,” he crooned. “You’re both trying to calculate how to make a move, da?” He pointed to each of them. “Trying to size me up for the crimes I’ve committed against your truest love?”
Anastasia paled. Her father was even more formidable an opponent than she realized.
“No matter,” the tsar cleared his throat and snapped his fingers.
Everything started moving in the blink of an eye. The soldiers lurched from their positions at the walls, grabbing hold of Mikhail and Anastasia.
Anastasia shrieked as the hands of strange men gripped her arms, trying to rip her from Mikhail’s side. Mikhail turned and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her to his chest. She hid in the crook of his neck while more hands emerged from all sides.
Mikhail shook his shoulders to deter them. He tried fighting back with his free arm against the shoulders piling up on his back, but it was no use. There were too many.
Anastasia tried not to descend into tears, letting out a strangled cry as more hands grabbed her, digging in tight enough to bruise.
She was brought back to that cursed place she’d existed in for fifteen years, where strange men got their hands down against her repeatedly. As soon as she was sucked into that headspace, she felt like a child again; she couldn’t even think about using her magic.
In the end, it was only a few minutes, but it might as well have been an eternity. It took seven men to pull the lovers apart. The tsar watched on with a slight grin on his face, the entire scene bringing him sadistic pleasure.
As they were separated, Mikhail's sound was inhuman. It was a feral sound, the yell of a desperate man who would burn the world to get her back. He saw Anastasia’s vacant stare, the way her shoulders hunched, and her hands started to tremble.
The anxiety of being back under her father’s control activated an old defensive mechanism in her, a traumatized response to act as small and powerless as possible.
The soldiers were sons of nobles, and Mikhail had spent fifteen years doing hard labor in the cold. If the odds weren’t five to one, Mikhail could’ve easily fought them off.
He turned, light on his feet for a man his size, taking a massive swing that sent one soldier crashing into the wall.
Another jumped on his back, and he tossed his shoulder to the right, sending the man crashing into one of his comrades.
Mikhail was a caged wild animal, fighting desperately for his life, horrified by Anastasia’s triggered immobility.
Her panic was real, and it had frozen her to the spot; it was a brutal reminder of the abuse she’d suffered.
“Enough!” The tsar roared above the din. Mikhail continued fighting, his knuckles now bloody and his hair falling loose. He looked every part of the possessed priest he allegedly was. “Stop or she dies!”
Mikhail released the soldier he was holding. Two guards held Anastasia, a knife to her throat. It was a sight Mikhail had not been eager to see again.
He could have gone his whole life without knowing the intrinsic fear he felt when a blade was against his lover’s neck. He descended into the depths of his rage, every ounce of hatred pooling in his body.
It was the coolness in the tsar’s voice that made him pause. The tsar would kill his own daughter. So, Mikhail froze.
When he stopped fighting, the soldiers were able to grab Mikhail and adjust their hold on their weapons. Four muskets aimed at Mikhail’s heart. He raised his hands slowly in a sigh of submission. His blood curdled.
Mikhail tried to make eye contact with Anastasia, but her head was downturned. She was staring at the ground beneath her father’s feet, not looking at either of them.
“Now,” the tsar drawled out his words, like it was a dessert that he wanted to savor.
“No magic or Rasputin gets a bullet in his heart. As you know, Anastasia’s skill set,” he struggled with the words, “comes from my side of the family. I wed her mother specifically to lower the chance of this happening in any of my children.”
“I bet you regret that decision now,” Mikhail’s voice dripped with animosity.
It sent a chill down the tsar’s spine, even if he didn’t show it. He kept talking as though he was unaffected.
“I had some of my advisors go through our family history, Anastasia,” the tsar pinned his gaze on her. She shuddered, refusing to lift her head. Mikhail wanted to vomit. “Did you know there was one very particular way the Romanovs kept magic under control?”
Anastasia’s eyes snapped up. Her expression made Mikhail’s chest constrict as he saw the pure terror in her eyes.
“Answer me,” the tsar demanded, standing up to his full height. Mikhail stepped forward, forgetting about the guns until the pistols were pressed against his skin. He let out a low grunt, eyeing the men on the other end of the weapons with contempt.
“I didn’t know,” Anastasia said quietly, her eyes falling to the ground again.
The tsar smiled, feeling the noose of control tightening around Anastasia’s neck. He had been worried about getting her under his thumb; her love for the priest caused complications, but that was just another pressure point. She still crumbled.
Mikhail could nearly read those thoughts going through the tsar’s mind, and he wanted to scream.
She could burn this whole palace down, with you in it. She’ll find herself, and the second she does, none of these damn mind games and posturing attempts will save you.
His faith in her was still resolute, but Anastasia needed to shake the remaining mantle of her father’s control.
“I didn’t know myself,” the tsar nodded, standing in front of Anastasia. “It’s fascinating.” He looked at one of the soldiers and gave him a curt nod.
On command, the soldiers holding Anastasia’s arms wrenched them forward, pushing her wrists together.
Another guard appeared, quickly stepping in between Anastasia and the tsar.
He snapped ancient, heavy-looking iron manacles around her wrists.
When he let go of Anastasia’s hands, the weight of the chains nearly sent her to her knees.
She stumbled, and the tsar caught one of her wrists, yanking it upwards.
Anastasia started crying, her face contorted in pain. Mikhail screamed, pushing against the mouth of the pistols pressed against his chest. A soldier shoved back and brought the gun to Mikhail’s forehead, cocking it.
“Mikhail, stop,” Anastasia’s voice was quiet, but she shook her head rapidly.
Mikhail was breathing heavily, his body vibrating with the desire to crack the skulls of everyone in the room.
They turned to look at her father. The tsar was smiling from ear to ear, grinning with a prideful look like the cat who got the cream.
“Iron,” he smiled as though it was apparent. “Iron manacles bind your magic, Anastasia.” His grin was positively sadistic as he leaned in until Anastasia could feel his breath on her face.
“Please,” she squeaked, all traces of her confidence gone. “I can’t feel it…” The irons bound her hands and drained her magic. There was an empty, pin-prick feeling at the base of her spine, growing in its intensity with every passing second.
“I think you’ll find this evens the playing field a little bit,” the tsar snapped his fingers, and the soldiers began to file out. “You have a day to consider my offer. I suggest deciding quickly, or my mood may foul.”
He kissed Anastasia on the forehead, causing her to grimace and struggle in the arms of the soldiers, visibly.
Mikhail broke into a chain of curses, threatening the tsar’s life. He walked out of the room without looking back. The soldiers holding Anastasia released her, and she fell to the ground. The heavy, thick iron chain was hitting her legs.
The last men to leave were the ones holding Mikhail at gunpoint. They went one by one, refusing to turn their backs on him. They had their weapons high, aimed at the couple, as the door slammed shut.
Mikhail threw himself to the floor next to Anastasia, ignoring the pain in his knees. He pulled her into his lap, running his hands over every inch of her he could find.
She dissolved into sobs as she tried to put her hands around his body and couldn’t. She screamed in a panicked frustration; an awful, heartbroken sound.
“Ssh, it’s okay.” It took everything in Mikhail to keep his voice steady.
He gently grabbed hold of her hands. With her wrists bound, he was still able to slip his head underneath her arms. He gently maneuvered her until her hands were around his neck, albeit at a somewhat awkward angle, and she readjusted her head on his shoulder.
Her sobs were coming even harder now. Mikhail stood, words failing him.
There wasn’t anything he could say to make her feel better.
He didn’t know what to do; the helplessness of it all was driving him more insane than anything.
There was no way to take away her pain. He brought them to the couch and shifted Anastasia’s weight in his arms, trying to make her as comfortable as possible.
“Mikhail,” she cried into his chest, her voice wavering, “I can’t feel my m-magic. It’s so wrong. I didn’t know it was so prevalent until I couldn’t feel it. I can’t feel it!”
“I know, malyshka,” he kissed her cheeks and tried to wipe away her tears. “Don’t worry. It’s still in you, Anya. It’ll never leave. You know it’s there, even if you can’t feel it.”