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once again cornered in her chambers by a suite of people determined to wield her like a weapon, her soul being drawn and quartered in front of them all.
They were each so blinded by their obsession to cover their scars that they couldn't see their injuries were the same.
Mikhail grinned, tossing a hand behind his head in a picture of male arrogance that made Anastasia want to hit him and beg him to climb on top of her again.
He was drawn to her power like a moth to a flame. Not to use it, harness it, or keep it, but to fan it. He wanted to stoke the fires of her magic and watch as everything burned down around them.
“You’re so beautiful when you respond to me, Anya.”
“Here,” he said softly, whispering in her ear. He grabbed her hand and brought it to his chest, sliding the collar of his shirt to the side as he placed her hand on his heart. “It’s beating, Anya,” he kissed her softly, coaxingly. “It’s beating for you.”
As soon as they were separated, the sound that Mikhail made was inhuman. It was a feral sound, the yell of a desperate man who would burn the world to get her back.
She could burn this whole fucking 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.
She was scorn, she was fury, she was wrath.
“Nicholas and Alexandra,” his voice was gruff and heady with exhaustion. “Consider this your trial by fire. Your reign is over. Accept it, and you will be taken as prisoners of the new state. Deny me, and you will die.”
He had nurtured the Romanov magic, but she had found herself. The woman he was carrying away from the ashes of the palace wasn’t someone who needed him — lest he ever forget he was only carrying her because she’d allow it — and she was magnificent when she burned.
