by M J Marstens
I hastily pull the covers back over her body and flee the room. Panting heavily, I brace my hands on the fireplace mantel and count slowly to clear my head. When this doesn’t work, I get on my knees before the flames and pray for absolution. But, instead of being granted my wish, all I see is Anastasia’s flesh seared into my memory for eternity.
Insentiently, my right hand reaches down to stroke my aching member. I can’t even remember the last time I touched myself—long before my father was killed. It’s one of the things I mastered while on my pilgrimage, as well as fasting for days on end. I control my bodily urges—not the other way around.
But, right now, my kher is Master and I am its slave.
I give-in to the temptation and rub myself roughly at the thought of the sleeping princess. Years of pent up frustration that I didn’t even realize existed come boiling out of my body in an explosive orgasm that makes me cry out and my legs shake. Luckily, I’m already on my knees, for surely this would have brought me to them.
I watch in a daze as jet after jet of my cum spurts into the blazing fire. When it finally subsides, I slump down, utterly spent. Guilt racks my brain, but my body is too replete to care or even listen. Later will be soon enough to implore for the Lord’s clemency and begin my penance.
A noise behind me has me whirling around in fright. There, in the shadows, sits Vadim, a crooked smile gracing his full lips. A chill runs down my spine. Is it not bad enough that God had to witness my ignominy, but now someone else did, too? I hang my head in shame, but Vadim surprises me.
“Don’t beat yourself up—you’re only human.”
His words do nothing to console me.
“That is no excuse. The Lord has called me to rise above my bodily urges and I have failed,” I explain in embarrassment.
“I’m sure He understands,” Vadim replies in amusement.
“Oh, and why are you so sure?”
“Because He’s the one who created her. The princess could tempt a saint.”
I let his words sink in.
“I’m no saint,” I admit, looking out a window into the bleak winter’s morning.
“Nor am I—and I don’t plan to be. If you want to gain her heart, be prepared to fight for it with the rest of us.”
I turn to him in surprise.
“I’m not after the grand duchess. I’m a monk.”
I say this last part to mostly remind myself.
“And I’m a Socialist bent on taking down the tsardom but, clearly, your God has other plans.”
I shake my head in disbelief at his words. This couldn’t be part of His plan for me. . .
Could it?
Chapter Nineteen
Anastasia
I wake up under a mound of blankets feeling weaker than a new babe. I have no clue where I am and I barely can remember my name, let alone what happened. On shaky legs, I swing off the bed and find the pot to relieve myself underneath it. No lavatory in this cabin, but from its rustic appearance, I wasn’t expecting one.
Outside the wind blows and the window affords me a view of the cold and blustery scenery there. Slowly, everything comes back piece by sickening piece. I rally my anger and march to the door, only to realize that I’m stark naked. I look around for my clothing, but don’t see it in the room.
I swallow my modesty and wrap a blanket around my nude form instead; then, I march into the main room where all five men are sitting. Instantly, Zavid and Vadim rush to my side, a million questions spilling from their mouths—am I alright? Do I need to sit? Am I hungry, or thirsty? Do I feel feverish still? Zavid is gentler in his inquiries, but Vadim demands my attention.
Yet, I don’t acknowledge a single query. I don’t even look at them. No, my eyes are trained on only one man in the room—the heartless bastard who betrayed my family and me. Slowly, I make my way to stand before him. I raise my hand high, but Ilya doesn’t even flinch. I don’t slap him like he probably assumes I intend to do. Instead, I rest my hand on his chest to support my weight a little more fully.
And, then, I drive my knee hard up into his groin with vicious satisfaction.
Ilya lets out a painful groan and drops to the floor. Deciding that I’m not done with my vendetta, I pull back my leg to kick him in the ribs, but someone tugs on my blanket, unbalancing me. I tumble to the ground and the fabric falls open to reveal my undressed state. I scramble to get up and cover myself once more, but I slip on the damned thing once more.
This time, I end up sprawled on top of Ilya. I flail angrily when his arms band around my body, but it’s an exercise in futility. Ilya is far stronger than me and, soon, has my thrashing limbs pinned in his. Unfortunately for him, though, it does nothing to stifle my greatest weapon—my mouth.
“You deceitful svoloch’1!” I scream. “I gave you my virginity! I thought you were my friend! They killed my family! Slaughtered them like sheep!”
My anger is quickly dissipating under the onslaught of fatigue and no longer fuels me as it did before. Now, I just feel drained and cheap.
“I trusted you,” I hiss venomously as traitorous tears leak from my eyes and course down my cheeks.
I want Ilya to taste my anger, but I don’t want him to know the depth of my pain—it tells the truth about how much I cared for him.
“It wasn’t even that good,” I fib, taking one final jab.
Mother always told my sisters and me to be aware of the male ego and how fragile it can be for some—to attack Ilya’s manhood is akin to calling him out. Underneath me, Ilya stills but, then, lets out a deep rumbling chuckle. In a smooth movement, he rolls to his feet and spins me around to face him. It’s moments like these that I detest being the smallest sister.
I need Tatye’s height.
Ilya’s brown eyes are dark with anger and other emotions. His jaw is kissed with stubble and he appears every inch the dangerous man I now know him to be. He takes my chin between his fingers and tries to tip my face upward to look at him, but I’m stubborn to a fault and keep fighting.
Eventually, I lose—something that galls me to no end—and stare up into his hateful face.
“I accept your anger, duchess. We both know I deserve nothing less. But, I will not accept your lies. Those you can keep to yourself because we both know what you said isn’t true, and I’ll gladly prove you wrong if you insist upon it.”
I gasp indignantly at his words, making his smile grow. I wrench out of his grasp and bend down to pull the blanket back around my body. I raise back up and steel my spine. Lenin’s son has no idea who he has messed with—and he will rue the day that he double-crossed me.
Now, I smile smugly at him.
“I will happily give you all of my anger and then some. You haven’t even begun to know my wrath yet. I will bring you to your knees before this is over and you’ll wish that you never tangled with me. But, your biggest regret will be something entirely different.”
I turn and walk back to my ‘room’, not looking at the other men watching this scene unfold. I don’t say anything and just wait for Ilya to take the bait—he doesn’t disappoint.
“And what will be my biggest regret, Grand Duchess?” he calls sardonically, like this is a game.
I pause at the door jamb, not bothering to look back when I speak.
“Saving my life,” I answer simply.
I can almost perceive Ilya’s astonished face at my words.
“Why would I regret that?” he asks incredulously.
Now, I do turn to stare into his eyes so he can see the flat emotion in mine.
“Because I promise you that I am not going to return the favor.”
Then, I flounce into my room and slam the door shut—just in time for the damn of tears to break alongside my heart.
* * *
1 Russian for ‘bastard’
Chapter Twenty
Maksim
Silence fills the cabin after my cousin’s last words. Nobody moves a muscle or attempts to speak. After a few minutes, the muff
led sound of Anastasia’s sobbing reaches our ears and my chest clenches at the absolutely heart-wrenching sound of them. Even stifled from her blankets and the closed door, one can hear the raw pain of her grief.
I swing accusatory eyes at Ilya, but his face reflects the same heart-ache as my cousin’s tears. He might be responsible for what happened to the royal family, but he clearly takes no joy in these actions. That’s the trouble with being a politician—it often calls on you to forsake your humanity for ‘the greater good’. And, for ‘the greater good’ of his political party, Ilya had to relinquish his relationship with Anastasia and take down her family.
In essence, he had to choose—the woman he loved or his political beliefs.
It sounds simple enough but, in truth, those political beliefs are also his core values. What the Krasnyye believe about socialism is akin to how a man feels about his faith. And how do you ask someone to turn their back on something like that?
Ilya runs a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Vadim, we need to go back to the city to tell my father that a situation has arisen.” He turns to look at the rest of us. “Tell Nastya. . . never mind. We’ll be back tomorrow. I will bring medicine for her, although I think her fever has broken for good.”
Vadim just nods in his stoic way and grabs a few things before heading out after Ilya. Zavid waits until the men are far from sight before speaking his thoughts.
“We should leave and take Anya. . .I mean, the grand duchess with us,” he announces, but Dmitri is quick to stop this plan.
“No. Anastasia is not healthy enough to travel. To do so now might make her even sicker and kill her. Just because the fever broke doesn’t mean she is well again, especially if she recently had the measles,” the monk argues.
Zavid lets out a heavy sigh.
“Damnation. Fine. We wait for her to fully recover and the next time that the Krasnyye leave, we go, too.”
I nod in agreement just to appease him.
“I’m going to go in and talk to her,” I decide.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Dmitri wonders.
“It wasn’t just her family killed on that night—it was mine, too. In this, we are kindred spirits and I am probably the best person here to comfort her.”
Of course, I really didn’t know any of my family massacred that night. Hell, I barely know Anastasia and certainly not well enough to recognize her through her dirty little disguise from before. But, she needs someone right now, whether she would admit it or not and I’ve decided that someone is me.
I knock politely on her door.
“FUCK OFF!” she screams wrathfully, making Dmitri choke on his sbiten1.
Even I’m a little shocked at her crass words, but Zavid doesn’t even blink. His party is half made of revolutionary women who swear more than the men—his sister, Shusha, probably the worst. That thought reminds me. . .
“Zavid, you need to get word to the Beliye that we are safe. Don’t tell anyone but Shusha what is going on,” I order.
Even though Shusha and I don’t get along, I know she is fiercely loyal to her brother, even before her cause. And she seemed quite taken with ‘Anya’. Once she learns the truth, I know she will protect the grand duchess, too. Zavid lets out a sigh, but grabs some things to leave.
“I’ll be back tonight,” he tells me decisively. “Take care of our girl.”
He gives me a heated look when I agree, the thought of Anastasia being ‘our girl’ sending a rush of desire through my body. Then, he leaves and it’s just the monk and me.
“I’ll leave you to talk with the princess while I get some firewood,” he says before leaving as well.
I amble back over to Anastasia’s room but forgo knocking. Instead, I just walk in like a mannerless cad. Anastasia flips the blankets off her face, her tear-swollen eyes burning with rage at my discourtesy.
“Get. Out!” she manages to spit over her ire.
“No,” I counter amicably just to piss her off further.
I want her to expend all her anger because simmering underneath it is all her hurt. Until we get to her true emotions, she won’t feel better, nor will we get anywhere talking. So, I provoke her. Not the most gentlemanly thing I’ve ever done, but I swear that I have her best intentions at heart.
Although I know she’s used to the word ‘no’—her parents ensured that their daughters weren’t the pampered princesses like the rest of Europe’s royalty—she still is used to getting her way. That’s just Anastasia, though. I read the letters that Tsarina Alexandra sent to my mother and I remember reading about the willful and stubborn youngest grand duchess.
Anastasia’s cheeks blaze fiery red at my words and she raises up to her knees to yell at me, but the blankets slip from her hold and fall down to her waist, giving me an unimpeded view of her full luscious breasts. The youngest princess certainly was gifted with the most tempting body.
Anastasia squeaks in embarrassment and rushes to cover her body from my hungry eyes, but I just laugh at her modesty.
“It’s nothing that I haven’t seen before,” I remind her wickedly and her blush grows.
“What do you want?” she snaps in vexation.
“To talk,” I respond simply, closing the door behind me.
I pull the lone chair up to the bed and sit down, making myself comfortable. The princess continues to glare daggers at me, but I pretend nothing is amiss.
“Well?” she huffs. “Say what you have to say and kindly then leave, please.”
“I read all the letters that your mother sent to mine,” I start.
“That was rude,” Anastasia interrupts. “They were intended for your mother from mine.”
I shrug at her words.
“My mother let me read them.”
The princess wrinkles her nose delicately.
“Why would she do that?”
“Do you not share your letters with your family?”
Anastasia falls silent while she thinks.
“Yes,” she finally admits. “I do share with my sisters, but that’s different. . .”
“Doubtful,” I disagree. “You share because there’s nothing personal in the note to bother keeping it to yourself and it brings others joy to read about your friends, who are likely their friends, too, yes?”
Anastasia frowns, but doesn’t respond.
“Growing up in exile was. . . lonely. My mother let me read the Tsarina’s letters because you and your sisters were of a similar age to me and I had no friends,” I confess. “I came in here to talk to you because I feel like I know you, but I don’t. Obviously, I don’t. It’s been well over five years since my mother passed and she received a letter from the empress. So, I want to know about the Anastasia I read about as a child. Are you still as troublesome?” I tease.
The grand duchess’ eyes narrow into slits and an almost petulant look crosses her face.
“I’m not troublesome,” she scowls and I laugh.
“Really?” I taunt. “Losing you for two weeks, chasing you through the freezing night, and then watching you nearly drown seems troublesome, princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” she commands softly.
“Why? It’s what you are. What else should I call you?”
She falls silent while she thinks.
Finally, she answers, “Nastya. It’s what my friends and family call me.”
“And Ilya,” I needle.
Another dark glare.
“Don’t speak his name to me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Maksim,” she sneers.
“Maks. Call me Maks, Nastya. And I’m not being obtuse. I’m being. . . troublesome,” I correct with a wicked grin.
A small laugh bubbles out of her.
“Talk to me,” I prod. “Be the friend that I never had. One who isn’t looking for my money or connections, like everyone else back at my father’s house.”
“Isn’t Zavid your friend?” she asks with a
n arch of her brow.
“It’s. . . complicated,” I hedge. “How did you meet Ilya?”
“It’s complicated,” she parrots smugly, making me chuckle.
“I think we might be far too alike to get anywhere. But, I’ll start—I’ve always fancied men, but that’s not acceptable in our social circle, so I’ve kept my feelings hidden behind a revolving door of different women and loose liaisons. Zavid is the first person to see through that façade and push me for my true feelings. Sometimes, I’m resentful at him for doing so but, mostly, I’m thankful that he’s given me a respite to truly be myself.”
Nastya is silent while she processes my words. She nods thoughtfully, her eyes distant and sad.
“That’s how Ilya made me feel, too,” she finally says softly.
And, just like that, our friendship was forged in a history of hurt and a need for acceptance in a world that imposed too many rules on us both.
* * *
1 A traditional Russian hot beverage drank in winter made of water, spices, honey, and jam
Chapter Twenty-One
Zavid
I don’t return until early morning before the sun is even up. I enter the cabin as quietly as possible, knowing everyone is probably asleep. The fire is going, but the main room is empty. I silently creep to Anastasia’s room and slowly creak open the door to peek inside. I see the familiar mound of blankets that she’s sleeping under, but it’s the other occupant in the room that surprises me—it’s Maks and he’s passed out in a chair near the bed.
He looks terribly uncomfortable and I walk over to shake him awake.
“Maks, Maks,” I whisper.
He wakes with a start, but I quickly shush him with a finger to his mouth.
“Don’t wake Anya,” I warn.
“Nastya,” Maks corrects.
“Right.”
It’s hard to imagine calling her anything else, let alone her being one of the grand duchesses.
“I’m sorry that it took me so long. I meant to be back hours ago.”
