Only Anastasia could see the telltale signs of his frustration. Whatever had happened in the past twenty-four hours for the Tsar, it had not been good.
His mustache was slightly askew, not the usual picture of precision that it normally was. There was a wrinkle in-between his eyes, and his glance jumped around the room.
The Tsar always had a glaring stare. He would focus it on people and could make grown men weak in the knees, but his gaze was now unfocused.
The way his eyes pivoted around the room let Anastasia know that his mind was distracted, too. She felt herself biting back a smile, feeling a little bit more confident in herself with every passing moment.
No one wanted to speak first. The Tsar came in and opened up his jacket, sitting down in a chair opposite Anastasia and Mikhail.
The couple had decided that no matter what it took — they would force the Tsar to speak first. They sat there, calm and collected, but careful to keep their faces devoid of any emotion. At one point, Anastasia slid her hand into Mikhail’s.
Everything was intentional; each moment had been planned. Mikhail had encouraged her in the few hours they’d had before the Tsar’s arrival to do whatever it was that she felt would be the right choice. He would support her, not decide for her.
They knew that if they were already sitting hand-in-hand when the Tsar entered, it wouldn’t have as great of an impact as watching Anastasia willingly reach for him. She was right, and it broke the Tsar’s silence.
“I’m waiting for your answer, Anastasia,” his voice was quieter than she expected, tired. She was no less afraid of him — a cornered predator is the worst kind of predator.
“I will marry Ruzsky,” Anastasia cast her eyes to the ground as if she was embarrassed.
A smile spread over the Tsar’s face as if it was the first good news he’d heard all day. Mikhail stiffened next to her as if he was not prepared for her answer or just still didn’t like it.
“A very wise decision, daughter,” the Tsar couldn’t keep the glee from his voice. He stood quickly — maybe a little too quickly — the atmosphere in the room didn’t change.
There were only a handful of guards with him this time. There was still a panic in the Tsar’s eyes that Anastasia couldn’t identify.
Something about it was setting both her and Mikhail even more on edge than they already were. The Tsar turned on his heel and was already moving to leave, re-buttoning his jacket.
“Father,” Anastasia purposefully called him by the moniker, marking the first time she did so in years. He stopped, turned, looking increasingly agitated as he was trying to leave. She stood up slowly. “The… the irons, please.”
Anastasia kept her voice pitiful and extended her arms out towards him. The Tsar made a calculating look, his expression turning stony. He shook his head.
“I think it’s best that we wait,” he said gruffly — clearly not trying to push Anastasia into choosing rebellion, frightened of her without the irons on.
“Please,” she said again, letting a crack slide into her voice, “I can’t feel it anymore. I don’t know if it will work, and I… I need to make sure it does.”
She looked up at her father and pleaded with him, giving her voice an angle of desperation like a child crying for their parent’s approval. The Tsar’s lip twitched and he adjusted his hands in front of him.
Finally, he turned to one of the soldiers and nodded in Anastasia’s direction. The soldier moved quickly, pulling a pair of keys out of his jacket and going over to Anastasia. She could almost feel the relief cascading over her at the idea of the dreadful pieces of metal coming off.
As soon as he went to turn the key in the lock, the Tsar’s voice rang out. It was sharper this time.
“Wait,” he snapped, some of his fury returning to him. He stopped and turned around, lifting his hand and beckoning a few extra soldiers into the room.
Anastasia couldn’t help but notice that they were much younger. In fact, all the guards in the room seemed to be fresh graduates. As compared to their last meeting, the Tsar had not brought the upper echelon of his men. Something was afoot.
“The man comes with us,” the Tsar commanded, pointing at Mikhail. Mikhail stood up immediately, bracing himself for a fight — his hands fisting at his side. He fought the urge to move closer to Anastasia, he knew that she needed to stand on her own.
Anastasia fought back a gasp before looking at her father with confusion. A few of the guardsmen went to stand near Mikhail, but they looked like they could hardly grow a mustache, let alone restrain someone of Mikhail’s size.
“What is this?” Anastasia looked at her father, her hands still in the grip of the guard. “You said that —“
“I don’t trust him,” the Tsar shook his head once. He looked towards the door, itching to get to something beyond it.
Anastasia bit back a response, trying to play the role of ashamed daughter dutifully. She sent a glance over to Mikhail — who was obediently following the soldiers towards the door.
Anastasia felt a pang of panic at the sight of him retreating from her, but wasn’t overcome with fear like she once was at the thought of doing something without him next to her.
As Mikhail stepped away from her, the soldier finally turned the key, and the heavy iron manacles fell to the ground with a thud.
