by M J Marstens
Maybe he does. . .
Now, is not the time to ponder it.
I’m cold—so, so very cold, and I just want to give up.
Maksim must be able to read this on my face because he pushes Zavid aside to lean dangerously close into the ice.
“Don’t you fucking dare give up, princess! The Anya I know would never give up!”
Any other time, I would snort. He doesn’t ‘know’ Anya—because this Anya is a lie—but his words ring true for me, Anastasia. I don’t give up. Even when the odds are stacked against me, I keep fighting. My mother calls me stubborn, but my father sees it as tenacious—one of the few positive spins on my less-than-praise-worthy traits.
I think of my parents, of my beloved sisters, and my dear little brother. They need me—and I need them—so, I harness my inner strength that has kept me going, despite not being to anyone’s expectations, and I reach for the branch again.
I use the last of my strength to hold on as all four men haul me from the water. Instantly, the wind tears at my freezing body and I can feel my body slipping into hypothermia. If I don’t get warm soon, saving me will all have been for naught.
Surprisingly, Ilya picks me up. I want to struggle like a wildcat to escape his warm embrace, but I’m too depleted. Instead, I weep uncontrollably for turning into him once more. The men probably assume my tears are ones of relief but, really, they are just the bitter residue from before leaking out.
“There!” Maksim suddenly exclaims. “Lights! A cabin!”
I feel Ilya tense up against me. He doesn’t trust strangers apparently—a lesson that I sorely need to learn. But, I hear him grumble something about beggars can’t be choosers. He knows that if they don’t raise my body temperature up soon, I’m a goner.
As if he can read my thoughts, Ilya picks up the pace and runs easily with me in his arms, as if I weigh nothing more than a sack of potatoes. He must be running on pure adrenaline at this point because I’m beyond exhausted. I couldn’t move, let alone walk, if I needed to. A scary thought since it means that I’m completely reliant on a traitor.
In a matter of minutes, we arrive at the cottage door. Vadim walks up to pound on it loudly. There’s the scraping sound of someone moving a chair and then footsteps as the person approaches the door—which only opens a sliver, light from the interior spilling outside in a narrow beam.
“Yes?” a rough man’s voice calls.
“Please, we are neutral. Our friend fell into the lake. She needs heat now or she will die,” Zavid answers, ever the peace-keeper.
The door shuts on his words and stays closed.
I think that is that and hope Ilya can run me back into town in enough time, when the door suddenly swings fully open, revealing the warm and inviting room inside. Although my eyes are barely open, I can make out the delicious glow of a roaring fire. I hum lowly at the sight. The sound spurs Ilya into action and he rushes me to the heavenly spot in front of the flames.
“We need all the blankets that you own and any liquor,” Vadim is telling the man, who quickly complies.
He comes back moments later, his arms laden with different fabrics cut into blankets. He hands them to Vadim and brings Ilya the bottle of liquor.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes to Ilya. “I’m a monk and do not drink spirits. I only have this bottle of vodka for when visitors come. . . which, as you can see from its sealed lid, is never.”
Ilya just nods and accepts the bottle, easily opening it. Then, in front of four other men, he strips me of my wet clothes. It’s evident from his methodical movements that he still doesn’t recognize me. He tips some vodka into his hand and begins to rub my skin briskly. Vadim steps up and takes one leg while Ilya works the other. Zavid joins to work on my arms and upper back, and Maksim rings my hair out to dry.
For a small moment in time, I let everything go. I just feel their hands upon my body, working in harmony. It’s almost as divine as the fire’s golden warmth. A girl could get used to this is all I can think as my body succumbs to the deep trauma that’s happened this night. I even let Ilya tip some of the vodka into my mouth—the liquor instantly burns a fiery path into the pit of my stomach where it pools welcomingly.
I flit in and out of consciousness, barely feeling anything as I’m bundled into blanket after blanket. It feels so unimaginably good to be warm again. I snuggle deeper into the many fabrics, ready for this night to be over.
“So, that’s why her brows are tinted red,” I hear Maksim muse.
I crack one eye open lazily to find all four men staring intently at me. Zavid and Vadim don’t seem to have made the connection yet, but I can tell by Ilya’s and Maksim’s faces that they recognize me. But, I’m too fatigued and, perhaps, a smidge drunk to care.
All I can think as I drift off into darkness is how I don’t have to roll in the ashes anymore like Zolushka1.
* * *
1 The Russian version of Cinderella
Chapter Seventeen
Ilya
I can’t speak and I can’t think.
Fuck—I can barely breathe.
The last woman I ever thought to see is sitting in my lap, recovering from her near death. Angrily, I hold her more tightly against my chest. Why isn’t she with her family? I fought hard to ensure that the Tsar, his wife, and their children would be spared.
So many in our group wanted to kill anyone with Romanov blood, but my father agreed that killing the Tsar would be dangerous right now. With everyone’s attention turned from the World War, Russia is ripe for change and a new beginning. But, we don’t want the world—namely Europe—to forget their own battles to come fight us.
While my father was firm about not killing the tsar and his family for political reasons, mine were more personal. Only my father knows of my liaison with the grand duchess. I pretended it was an in to get to know the palace better, but I’m sure my father saw through my lie.
I fell for Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova—and I fell hard.
Thinking back to her seeing me in Dr. Botkin’s house is nearly enough to make me physically sick. She thinks I betrayed her. . .and, in essence, I did. And how does she unknowingly repay the favor? By saving my best friend’s life.
I feel lower than a snake.
Of course, she escaped. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. My Nastya has to be the most stubborn and resourceful person on the face of the Earth—loyal, too. She will do anything to protect those she loves and I understand her drive all too well. She wanted to meet my father to demand to know where her family is.
I rock gently back and forth, blindly staring into the flames of the fire. My body still hasn’t released the pent-up tension riding me hard. Nastya almost died—and it had been running from me. The guilt keeps racking up and I have no idea how I will ever be able to explain myself to her—I doubt she’ll even let me try.
Nastya is very sheltered and was raised to only trust her immediate family, but my girl is also a born rebel. While she clung to her family, Nastya still looked beyond her palace walls for something different. I was that something different. It took some time to gain her trust but, when I did, I knew it was more precious than gold.
And that I would someday have to break it.
They say that the Fates are cruel and I believe it. Our destinies have been entwined but have no connection in the end. Nastya stirs in my arms and I see Vadim’s keen eyes drinking her in. There’s more than just a look of worry on his face—his gaze is almost proprietary. I detest the possessive look he gives my sleeping princess.
And Vadim is only one of my many problems.
The other two are currently staring at Nastya in the same manner as my best friend. Worse, one seems to know her—the blond man. I clear my throat to get everyone’s attention. I don’t like the covetous looks they are giving my duchess.
“You know who she is?” I demand gruffly of the blond man.
He gives me a snotty glare.
“She’s my cousin, the Gran
d Duchess Anastasia,” he announces.
Vadim curses loudly and the dark-haired Beliye looks thunderstruck, but it’s the other man in the room who takes me by surprise. I hear his gasp from the other side and he swivels around to face us. The minute that I began stripping Nastya, the monk politely turned his back, but no longer.
Now, he’s staring at her as well, and recognition lights up his eyes.
“Malenkaya1” he asks incredulously, like she can answer him in her unconscious state.
“You know her, too?” I demand, not liking the familiar tone he uses, nor the even more familiar nickname.
“Yes. I am Dmitiri. . . Grigoryevich Rasputin.”
Everything instantly snaps into place—the monk is the Tsarina’s imperial confidant’s son.
I groan at the sheer absurdity of us all together in a single room—Reds, Whites, an imperial princess, and a deranged priest’s son. Once again, Fate is taunting me with more interweaving pieces to a never-ending headache of a twisted puzzle.
Could this situation even get any more complicated?
“And you’re her cousin?” I mock to the blond man.
I knew I had him pegged correctly. He screams ‘royal blood’ and hasn’t stopped looking down his nose at every one since I first met him.
“Yes. I’m Prince Maksim Romanovsky-Iskander.”
“The estranged grand duke’s stepson?” I ask with a raised brow.
Maksim just glares at me in response and I grin at his irritation.
“And you are?” I ask the other Beliye.
“Zavid,” he answers simply.
“I already know His Majesty over there is an Imperialist—what are you?”
“Not that it’s really any of your business, but I’m a Republican. And you’re a Socialist—and not just any Socialist, but one who knows the Grand Duchess Anastasia personally. Care to explain that?”
“I’m interested in hearing that answer as well,” Vadim adds.
“You already know,” I grumble at the instigator.
“No—actually, I don’t.” he counters and I glare savagely at my supposed best friend.
He should know better than to question me in front of others.
“Well, would somebody tell me what’s going on?” Dmitri asks in exasperation.
We all shoot the man a startled look, seemingly forgetting that he is in the room still. I take a moment to assess him. I’ve only ever seen pictures of the old priest, his father, but Dmitri only appears to share his dark coloring. Beyond that, he looks nothing like his sire.
Dmitri is tall and well-muscled—proof of the stark life of being a hieromonk2. Living in the remote wilderness as he does, I’m sure he cuts his own wood, hunts for his own meat, and harvests his own plants. Hell—he probably even built this cabin. It’s miles and miles from civilization and well away from the bustle of St. Petersburg.
I’m not sure Nastya realizes just how far she ran. The shock of seeing me—and what that meant to her—made her legs forget their fatigue as she fled. The exhaustion of chasing her and, then, the stress of almost losing her is just setting into me now. I slump lower into the chair with my unconscious treasure, resuming my assessment of the monk.
His eyes and hair are stark black and his nose is straight and patrician. His facial hair isn’t as unruly as I would have assumed for a man living alone in the wilderness. It’s trimmed neatly to show the angles of his features underneath.
They say that his father was mad—and had the ability to see into the future. Whether this is accurate, I don’t know. Another Dmitri, ironically the grand duke who was reportedly engaged to the eldest grand duchess, assassinated Father Grigori nearly a decade ago. The rest of the Romanovs and royals didn’t like how close he was to the Tsarina—and, thusly, the Tsar.
They resented his influence at court and killed him. As I look at his son, I wonder if Dmitri still carries the flame of hatred for these men who murdered his father. Once he hears how the Krasnyye slew these extended royal family members, he might feel indebted to our cause and join. But, I’m too tired to explain now. Tomorrow is soon enough to recruit him.
And beg Nastya for forgiveness.
* * *
1 Russian for ‘little one’, an actual nickname for the real Anastasia
2 Also called a priestmonk, a hieromonk is a monk who is also a priest in the Russian Orthodox Church. A hieromonk can be either a monk who has been ordained to the priesthood or a priest who has received monastic tonsure.
Chapter Eighteen
DMITRI
The next three days pass in a painful blur. The man holding little Anastasia passed out before answering, and the others were equally drained. I have two spare rooms with beds for people in need who might stumble across my humble home. I offer them to the three men still awake, but all three decline and fall asleep in front of the fire.
There’s an obvious distrust among them, but the dreaming duchess is the nucleus of their group, holding them together in tentative peace. I stare at her now in wonder. It’s been eight years since I’ve seen her and, oh, how she’s grown up from the child she last was. I smile, remembering the ten-year-old mischievous imp who wreaked havoc throughout the Winter Palace.
My father had asked me to come visit—an invitation personally extended from the Tsarina herself. I’d never had any interest in going to court, but my father reassured me that the emperor and empress were not like normal royalty. They were a grounded couple without the common airs of someone in their position.
And, so, I stayed for a brief time. The children were a delight, but the older three sisters faded into the background compared to their boisterous younger sister. Even Alexei, the heir, didn’t command as much attention. The little minx caused more trouble in the three days that I visited than the others made in their entire lives, I’m sure.
But how she left an impression.
No one could ever forget the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova. The girl was a force of nature. Shortly after that, I left to follow in my father’s holy footsteps. This sabbatical took me far from the capital and, by the time news reached me, my father has already been slaughtered by jealous royal family members—hunted liked a wild animal for his beliefs, gifts, and association with the Tsar.
After that, I washed my hands of ‘polite society’. It was just a mask that hid the monster underneath and I wanted nothing to do with people anymore. I traveled all throughout Russia but, eventually, I felt called back to St. Petersburg. I built a simple cottage dozens of mile from the city and I have been serving God here—and the random passing stranger—ever since.
I’ve never felt any ill-will towards the Tsar or his family. I know how much the Tsarina loved my father and cherished him for easing the suffering of her son. Never in a million years did I expect the civil unrest to explode as violently as it has. My father always predicted that the Russia he knew would cease to exist, but I didn’t know he meant so soon.
And Russia is surely on an unstable precipice, teetering toward something new or plummeting to her annihilation.
The next morning, I came out of my room to find the men in the exact same positions from the night before—huddled around the princess—their bitter whispering not even disturbing her. I waited a long time before anyone answered my questions and I wish, now, that I never asked. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and living as I do, I’m truly cut off from the worst of civilization.
But, war would have eventually come to my doorstep. These men have just prepared me sooner for it. Yet, this is the least of all our worries because the grand duchess will not rouse. Worse—she’s burning with fever. Without access to a doctor or even medical supplies, she won’t survive the shock that her body suffered from before. Also, the man holding her announced that she recently recovered from measles. Knowing this, Anastasia’s situation is precarious, at best.
All we can do now is pray.
The four other men and I take turns tending to the sickly grand duches
s, although the one called Ilya only does so when too tired to carry on himself. He does not like sharing her, but I do not understand why. Over the last three days, I’ve learned that Ilya and Vadim are good friends and are part of the socialist movement that my father prophesized would make Russia crumble. The other two men are part of the same movement, but different factions.
Just thinking about it makes my head hurt. I’m just a simple monk and politics have never interested me—that’s why I consecrate my life to God as a hermit. Serving in a church and to the masses seems like a noble calling—but it’s rife with underhanded ambition and the need to rise up in society. Don’t let anyone tell you that there is a separation of church and state—often, they are one and the same here.
But, because of this, it accords me an elevated status in society, regardless of my lifestyle. Holy men are revered—another reason my father’s assassination leaves such a nasty taste in my mouth. Our lot in life guarantees our sanctuary and safety, but not if you’re the personal confidant of the empress, it would seem.
I put aside my bitterness to tend to the princess. For once, my small cabin is empty, as the others have gone to get more wood and hunt. Even though I have plenty of food, they don’t wish to deplete me—something I appreciate. The room feels more spacious without them inside of it and, praise the good Lord above, it finally feels like Anastasia is cooling down.
I decide to take her to a spare room to rest. I lay her upon the bed and fret as if I’m her mother, tucking the blankets carefully around her. But, ever the contrary soul, she kicks them off in her sleep. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of pale flesh. The little imp is definitely no longer a child. Sprawled before me now is the perfect temptation wrapped in sin.
My hands shake at the unholy sight of her heavenly features. Unconsciously, I trace a finger down one silken leg. Goosebumps form on her skin and, for the first time in years, my cock stirs to life. No—stirs is too mundane of a word. It roars to life, like a fire-breathing dragon seeking its next victim. The fair maiden before me will suffice, it says.
