Anastasia spun on her heel and stormed off to the door leading into her bedroom, slamming it for good measure. She leaned back against it and sank to the floor, burying her head in her hands, beginning to sob.
She had stayed calm and kept her cool for fifteen years, and in fifteen minutes, this strange man had ripped her limb from limb… and left her wanting more.
???
Mikhail stood on the other side of the bedroom door, shocked. He had spent the past fifteen years imagining what Anastasia would be like… and she had shattered every preconceived notion that he had.
He had been expecting a Grand Duchess that was spoiled, with her every whim catered to in order not to invoke the wrath of her magic. He’d assumed that the palace had decided to hide her gifts as a weapon — or as part of another convoluted religious plot of the Tsarina — and she wreaked havoc on the Winter Palace as a result.
In reality, she had been forced into captivity, which sparked a flicker of something in his chest that he didn’t want to react to. He sat down in Anastasia’s chaise, inhaling the scent… violets and something heavier, darker, smokier… magic.
He peered over the spells that they had her writing and scoffed at the idiocy of everyone in the palace.
Mikhail had learned a good deal from his mother growing up; while he could tell Anastasia’s magic was much more potent than hers, the basic mechanics were the same. That meant that he understood the ins and outs of controlling and manipulating the gift.
He stared down at the parchment, noticing how haphazardly her lines had been drawn — almost like her hand had been cramping.
If I could just find the… ahh. There it is. Iron. Idiots.
Sure enough, the iron pen would bother Anastasia’s magic like a thorn in her side, but without any counterspells on it, it was useless to inhibit her.
Rasputin correctly assumed they had no idea it affected her at all. He dipped his finger in the inkwell and rubbed them together, giving it a cursory sniff.
His mother had taught him to look for dark magic in the most benign places because only there could it thrive. It would never stand against goodness.
Mikhail sighed and leaned back in his chair, his thoughts drifting to Asya and some of his rage against Anastasia returning.
She knows that Asya is my mother. Why else would she mock me so? What a self-righteous…his thoughts trailed off, and he cursed himself for not being able to finish them and give over to the rage entirely.
He had seen in their brief — but explosive — meeting how much she had been trapped and a puppet to the Tsar and Tsarina’s will. If she was telling the truth.
No matter what he felt about Anastasia, it made him hate the monarchs even more than he already did, which he didn’t think was possible.
The idea that they could abandon their daughter so fully, so entirely, and subject her to the will of these lecherous men, all aching for a hit of her power… Mikhail stopped himself before he tossed the ink well against the wall, partially out of the self-hatred that began to tangle in his chest when he realized how protective he was of her already.
It has nothing to do with her. It’s only because it’s wrong. It has nothing to do with her; it’s the situation.
Mikhail ran a hand through his dark hair and leaned back in the chaise, one hand resting behind his head. He needed a plan.
Anastasia was going to get under his skin if he wasn’t careful. She had killed his mother. That’s all he needed to remember.
When he called upon the memory of Asya’s kind face, all he could hear was her promise to help protect the Romanov magic. It seemed that even Asya’s ghost wanted him to protect her… to help Anastasia.
He scoffed in a turmoil of self-hatred and anger, unable to diffuse, and began wondering which door was his.
Upon arrival, he was told that Anastasia’s rooms were ten in total, most of them sitting empty as she wasn’t allowed private maids anymore.
There was her main sitting room, where she was forced under the tutelage of crackpots and charlatans, her bedroom, and one room set up for the current tutor.
Mikhail felt something sink in his gut when he thought about how these men were allowed to sleep in her rooms… a new feeling entirely swelled in his chest when his mind dwelled on how baseless these men could be and how many had probably tried to breach Anastasia’s door at night. She had likely not fallen asleep feeling safe in years.
A feeling I can relate to, dear Duchess.
8
After their explosive meeting, the next two days felt like a minefield. Mikhail and Anastasia managed to keep away from each other as best as possible, but living in the same rooms made it difficult.
Anastasia resigned herself to her bedroom most days, only emerging for meals — the only time they saw each other. The first time the heavy, silver cloche was lifted to reveal the Duchess's diet, Mikhail was repulsed.
