Mikhail flinched, and Anastasia shook her head rapidly before continuing.
“— in thebestway. I lived an awful life. I don’t know how you could ever forgive me… I could never blame you for that… you should know.”
“Know what?” Mikhail couldn’t help but push her, dying to hear the words come out of her mouth.
“I… I don’t even know if I have words for it. It’s true. You asked me for just one night, but I’d give you all of them for the rest of my life.”
There was a silence that settled over the small room. Anastasia bit down on her lip and felt her stomach begin to turn.
After a mere heartbeat of silence from Mikhail, she was convinced that she was indeed thestupidestwoman alive.
You dumb child! You’re Romanova! You might have a shared goal, one man comes into your chambers, and you go head over heels for him like —
“I’d give you every moment of my life, Anya.” Mikhail’s voice cut through her thoughts as she turned and stared at him with a wide-eyed expression. “I don’t know what it means either… we don’t have to know.”
“You mean…,” Anastasia was afraid to ask the question, but she needed to know before the conversation went another second further.
“I forgive you, Anya.”
“I trust you.”
Mikhail leaned forward, one hand pulling Anastasia closer by the waist, the other cupping her cheek.
They crashed against one another in a passionate kiss, pouring everything they had been withholding from one another into it.
Anastasia leaned back, dragging Mikhail with her by his hair when they were interrupted by a sudden knock.
Startled, they sprung apart just as the door opened, and the innkeeper stepped in carrying a massive tray of food with a smile on her face that looked like the dawn.
“Dinner!”
17
True to his word, Mikhail brought Anastasia back to the Winter Palace the following morning. He felt wrong. A nagging feeling sat in the pit of his stomach as they made their way back through the gates.
They weren’t sneaking around this time but walking through the front door felt like asking for trouble.
They made their way through the palace unaccosted and reentered Anastasia’s room, noticing everything was how they had left it.
The floor was covered in blood and shards of glass and ceramic. The candles and lamps were burnt out, and a heavy curtain was hanging off-kilter above the window.
Mikhail studied Anastasia’s face as she looked over the damage, concerned that the messy scene would bring back dark memories for her.
The realization that they had really, truly, stood up to the Tsar and Tsarina was sitting on top of both of them like stone. Anastasia simply smoothed down her skirts, looked around, and with a wave of her hand, had the room back in its original state.
Mikhail stared after her with a shocked look on his face, amazed at how her powers seemed to be developing — and how fast — now that she’d stepped into her identity.
They knew that they had to find more allies or come up with a plan at all if they were going to finish what they started — seeing the damage of the room solidified in both of their memories that they had poured the gas and lit the fire.
The next day they stayed in her rooms, Anastasia stealing nervous glances towards the door every time someone knocked even though only food was delivered to her rooms, per usual.
At first, Mikhail was just happy that the kitchens hadn’t received any orders to stop sending meals. By the second day, that changed.
When breakfast arrived, Mikhail grabbed a cloche and knew that it wasn’t their normal fare from its chilled surface. He lifted it to reveal Anastasia’s old breakfast — cold oatmeal, no fruit, no sugar. Only water, no coffee.
Anastasia let out a long, controlled breath, and he eyed how she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking.
This was about more than the food. It was a reminder of the years that she had spent entirely under her family’s thumb. They would stop at nothing to trigger her and gaslight her into doing whatever they wanted.
