A Relative's Arrival

"A relative…?"

Igor studied Elizabeth with the same haughty expression she always wore as she spoke to him. There was no way he could be ignorant of what Mikhail had done the day before yesterday. Not long after the maid had gone upstairs, Catherine's voice had thundered down the corridor as she hurled something and screamed that the ungrateful little wretch ought to be ashamed. At least Mikhail and Anastasia had already gone to the annex by then; that much was a mercy.

Even after hearing every detail, Elizabeth remained unchanged. She carried herself as though nothing had happened and nothing ever would.

"Yes."

"When does he say he'll arrive?"

"Sometime this week, I expect."

From those words Igor understood at once that Elizabeth was not asking permission; she was informing him. He nearly said he would check with Mikhail first, then remembered the order Mikhail had given him the previous day: except for anything that concerned Anastasia, grant the Lauderdales whatever they wanted, even if it meant stretching things a little.

By Igor's standards that command had been genuinely surprising. To Mikhail this transaction was already finished. There would never be another deal with this particular client. Igor had assumed Mikhail would continue to show the Lauderdale family no special consideration, the way he always had. And yet—give them everything they want?

I even joked and asked what he'd do if they asked for the Sokolov mansion itself…

He had expected Mikhail to answer with equal playfulness, something like "That would be inconvenient." Instead Mikhail had thought for a moment and said, with complete seriousness, "If they ask for a villa, just give them one."

"Should I obtain separate permission from Mr. Mikhail?"

"No. Do as you please."

Igor answered at once. Mikhail's reason for ordering him to accommodate Elizabeth in everything was simply to keep her from having any cause to seek Mikhail out in person. When Igor bowed his head, Elizabeth turned and left without another word of thanks.

Alone in the empty corridor, Igor glanced toward the annex. From the day he had brought Anastasia back, Mikhail had moved his entire residence there. Today, as usual, Igor would not see his face until Mikhail emerged in the afternoon.

"I understand that it's enjoyable, but…"

Igor absently scratched a cheek that had grown warm for no reason. Mikhail was a man who felt no particular shame about his own actions, and so he displayed the marks left on his body without the slightest concern.

The nail scratches visible on his neck and arms through the open collar of his shirt made it all too easy to imagine exactly how he spent every day in the annex. And that was not all. Since that day Igor had not seen Anastasia's face even once. It was obvious Mikhail was handling her so roughly she could not leave the room.

"A relative, though…"

Most of the rooms at Edenhurst had already been restored to their former glory. Providing a guest with a single chamber would be no trouble at all. Thinking he would later ask carefully who exactly was coming, Igor turned away.

"Ilya Isayev is coming…"

The letter had arrived the previous evening. It was addressed simply to the Lauderdale count's household, with no specific recipient named. Even for something delivered by a village post-office clerk, the stationery was remarkably fine.

Elizabeth cast her mind back over what she remembered of Ilya Isayev. He was a somewhat distant relative, yet they had met fairly often. Whenever the count's family spent time in the capital he had been a frequent visitor. A handsome man of the same age, dark brown hair and brown eyes. She recalled that he had secured a position as an associate professor at the capital academy and was still working there.

He had been one of the people who expressed genuine concern when the Lauderdale family's fortunes began to decline. As Elizabeth remembered it, Ilya had also been among the first to extend a hand when the countess sought help from their relatives. As the third son of his own house he held neither title nor land, and his circumstances could hardly be called comfortable, yet he had sent every last bit of his salary.

Afterward the Lauderdale fortunes had changed dramatically, but Ilya Isayev's worried letters had continued. They had never particularly answered them—and now, out of nowhere, he wrote that he intended to visit. Elizabeth read the letter again.

After the Lauderdales' fall he had also been the one to offer the sisters his hand. If they were willing, he had said, even he would become their husband and help them. Naturally both sisters had refused. No matter how far the Lauderdales had fallen, they had no desire to marry a man who possessed neither title nor land—a mere professor. In the end Ilya was nothing more than a laborer of modest means.

After the refusal he seemed to have understood their feelings; aside from the occasional remittance of money he had sent no further letters…

"……"

Elizabeth's fingers traced the smooth, scented paper. Stationery of this quality was manufactured entirely in Ils and imported; even noble houses did not use it lightly. It was reserved mainly for invitations to grand occasions. To send a simple letter on such paper… in short, Ilya's circumstances appeared to have changed.

I wonder what happened.

What could possibly have improved an academy associate professor's fortunes so dramatically? Perhaps…

Elizabeth slipped the letter back into its envelope. Whatever had changed, there was no harm in receiving him.

"Haa… haa…"

Anastasia lay face-down on the bed. The aftermath of the fierce act that had only just ended still had not left her; her body had not the strength even to move a finger and could only drag in short, shallow breaths.

It had already been two full days of this. Having decided to stay in the annex, Mikhail never left Anastasia's side. The bed, especially, had become their perfect private domain.

Pinned tightly in his arms atop the mattress she had poured out every sound imaginable, sounds she could scarcely believe belonged to her own throat—sounds like the soft rumbling of a cat in spring. Before long those sounds turned into sobs. Whenever she felt him thrusting savagely into her deepest place, Anastasia had no choice but to beg.

At last, knowing she could not stop him, she clung to him, called his name, and wept. Then came the moment when everything melted away. Afterward, as her dazed mind began to close her eyes, his rough breathing would pause and a large hand would gather her body gently against him. Anastasia found that so good it brought tears to her eyes.

"Haa…"

Having finally steadied her breath, Anastasia used every scrap of remaining strength to pull the thin coverlet up over herself.

While she lay there Mikhail returned from the bath, a large towel soaked in warm water in his hand. He sat beside her, drew down the coverlet she had so laboriously raised, and laid the towel across her back and waist.

"Ah…"

A helpless sound of pain escaped her. Mikhail gave a soft snort of laughter and began to wipe her clean, starting from her fingertips with the edge of the towel.

His marks covered every part of Anastasia's body. His hands turned her onto her back. Embarrassed that her front was now fully exposed, she hastily tried to pull the coverlet up again. Mikhail's hand firmly caught it and drew it away, then took the towel that had fallen aside and covered her front with it instead.

Even through the thick towel the soft swell of her body drew a look of satisfaction from him. At first she had been little more than skin stretched over bone; now she possessed curves more dizzying than any woman's body he had ever seen—plus a fullness that would not fit in one hand. All of it from nothing more than proper meals.

How little they must have fed her.

An unfamiliar sensation surged up his throat and left a bitter taste. It was not even his own affair, yet his stomach turned.

"Mikhail…?"

Sensing something odd in his stillness, Anastasia forced her exhausted eyes open and called to him. The sound brought him back to himself; he moved his hands again. He wiped over the marks that would never fade and cleaned away the dried white traces as well. Then, abruptly, the thought struck him: in a few hours everything would be a mess again, so why bother?

He set the thought aside and continued working with the meticulous care of the most devoted servant. When at last the wet towel lost its warmth he tossed it carelessly onto the table and climbed onto the bed.

"Mikhail."

As though she had been waiting, Anastasia burrowed into his arms.

"Tell me about Sokolov."

"You want to hear it again? I must have told you at least ten times already."

"But… it's still interesting."

She was not lying; Anastasia genuinely found every story he told of Sokolov fascinating. Tales of the Sokolov mansion where he lived, of the streets lined with shops, of the busy harbor where ships lay at anchor. Mikhail painted vivid pictures of a world she had never touched. Thanks to him she had almost come to believe she already knew the cry of Sokolov's seagulls and the briny smell of its sea.

"We'll be going there soon enough. I don't see why you're in such a hurry."

Mikhail brushed her hair behind her ear and pressed a kiss to the smooth round forehead that was revealed. The way her eyes slipped shut in pleasure was so lovely he thought he might devour her once more right then. The moment his hand reached for her waist, Anastasia looked straight into his eyes and spoke.

"You must take me to Sokolov."

"……"

It might have sounded like pleading, yet her gaze and voice were more earnest than he had ever heard them. Clinging to the hand he had stretched toward her, Anastasia repeated,

"You must."

As though she were extracting a vow. Mikhail rose over her and swallowed the pretty mouth that had spoken those words.

He fully intended to take her.

He had not yet grown tired of this woman.