Chapter 67 Manipulation
The morning light was thin and grey when Anya found Dmitri in the conservatory.
She'd been looking for him since dawn, moving through the house with purpose, her steps measured, her face composed. The key was still at her throat, warm against her skin, a weight she carried like armor. Her father's letter was folded in her pocket, the words pressed against her thigh, a reminder of what she was supposed to do.
He was standing by the window, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him. The plants around him were green, alive, thriving in the heat of the glass room. He looked out of place among them, too still, too cold, like something that had been placed here and forgotten.
She stopped in the doorway, watching him. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, his hands white-knuckled behind his back. He looked like a man who had been standing there all night, waiting for something he wasn't sure would come.
"You didn't sleep."
He didn't turn. "Neither did you."
She moved into the room, her footsteps soft on the stone floor, her eyes on his back. The plants brushed against her dress, leaving drops of water on the fabric, their scent heavy in the warm air.
"I read the letter. The one my father left for me. About you."
His hands tightened behind his back. "I know."
"He said you were afraid. That you'd always been afraid. That you became what your father wanted you to become because you were too scared to be anything else."
He turned then, his grey eyes fixed on her face, his expression unreadable. "He also said you could use that fear to destroy me. That's why you're here, isn't it? To find the thing that could bring me down. To use what you know against me."
She moved closer, stopping just out of reach, close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the lines around his mouth, the cracks in the armor he'd been wearing since he was a boy.
"I'm here because I wanted to see you. Not the man you pretend to be. Not the son your father wants. You."
He stared at her for a long moment, something flickering in his eyes, something that might have been hope or fear or something she couldn't name.
"Why?"
She reached out, her fingers brushing his hand, light as a breath. "Because I think you've been pretending for so long, you've forgotten who you were before you started."
He didn't pull away. He stood very still, his hand cold under hers, his eyes fixed on her face. "You don't know who I was before. You don't know anything about me."
"I know you were fifteen when my father sent you away. I know you asked him for my hand, and he told you no. I know you went back to your father and became what he wanted you to become, because you thought that was the only way anyone would ever love you."
His hand moved under hers, his fingers curling around hers, his grip tight. "You think that makes you special? You think you're the first person who's tried to save me? Who's looked at me and seen something worth saving?"
She shook her head slowly. "I don't think you need saving, Dmitri. I think you need someone to see you. Really see you. Not the weapon. Not the son. Not the man who kills people who stand in his way." She squeezed his hand, her grey eyes holding his. "You."
He pulled her closer, his hand on her waist, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm on her lips, his heart pounding against her chest. She could feel him shaking, the tremor running through his body, the fear he was trying to hide.
She didn't pull away. She let him hold her, let him stand close enough to kiss her, let him believe she was choosing him.
"I think you've spent your whole life being what other people wanted you to be. Your father's son. His weapon. His heir. I think you've been so busy becoming what he wanted, you forgot to ask yourself what you wanted."
His hand tightened on her waist. "I wanted you. I've always wanted you."
She reached up, her fingers touching his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. "You wanted what my father wouldn't give you. You wanted to prove you were good enough. You wanted to be something other than what he made you."
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his breath coming faster. "You don't know what he made me. You don't know what I've done."
She moved closer, her body almost touching his, her voice soft. "I know you're not him, Dmitri. You're not your father. You never were. And you could be so much more than what he made you."
He opened his eyes, and for a moment, she saw it. The boy he'd been before, the one who had asked her father for her hand, who had wanted to be something other than what he was becoming. The one who had been waiting, his whole life, for someone to see him.
"You could help me." Her voice was soft, gentle, the voice she used on wounded things. "You could give me what I need to end this. To end him. To be free."
His hand dropped from her waist. He stepped back, his face hardening, the mask sliding back into place. "You want me to betray my father. You want me to give you the evidence you need to destroy him. You want me to choose you over everything I've ever known."
She didn't move. She stood where he'd left her, her hand still raised, her eyes still on his face. "I want you to choose yourself. For once in your life, I want you to choose what you want, not what he wants. Not what anyone else wants. You."
He stared at her for a long moment, his grey eyes dark, his hands clenched at his sides. She could see him fighting it, the thing she'd awakened in him, the thing he'd been hiding his whole life.
"You think if you say the right words, if you look at me the right way, I'll give you what you want. You think you can use what my father did to me, what he made me, to destroy him."
She moved toward him, her steps slow, deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. "I think you've been waiting your whole life for someone to give you a reason to be something else. And I think you know, somewhere inside you, that this is your chance. Your only chance. To be free."
He reached for her, his hand on her arm, his grip tight. "And if I give you what you want? If I help you destroy him? What happens to me? What happens to us?"
She let him hold her, let him pull her close, let him believe she was considering a future with him. "That's your choice, Dmitri. Not mine. Not his. Yours. You can be what he made you. Or you can be something else. Something you chose."
His grip loosened. His hand slid down her arm, her wrist, her fingers. He held her hand for a moment, his thumb tracing the lines of her palm, his face unreadable.
"You're asking me to betray everything I've ever known. To give up my name, my inheritance, my future. To become the thing my father always said I was. Weak. Soft. A failure."
She shook her head slowly. "I'm asking you to be brave. For once in your life, I'm asking you to be brave."
He released her hand, stepping back, his face pale, his hands shaking. "You don't know what you're asking. You don't know what he'll do to me if I betray him. You don't know what he's capable of."
She moved to the window, her back to him, her voice soft. "I know what he did to my father. I know what he did to your mother. I know what he's been doing to you, your whole life. Making you afraid. Making you small. Making you believe you could never be anything more than what he made you."
She turned, her grey eyes meeting his. "He's wrong, Dmitri. You could be so much more. You could be free."
He stood in the center of the conservatory, his hands at his sides, his face white, his eyes fixed on her face.
"Give me time." His voice was low, rough. "I need time to think. To plan. To figure out how to do this without getting us both killed."
She moved toward him, stopping just out of reach, her voice soft. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here. Waiting."
He stared at her for a long moment, something shifting in his eyes, something she couldn't name. Then he turned, walking toward the door, his footsteps slow, heavy.
"Dmitri." He stopped, his hand on the frame, his back to her. "You're not him. You never were. Remember that."
He didn't turn. He stood there for a moment, his shoulders tense, his head bowed. Then he walked out, the door closing behind him, leaving her alone in the warm, green room.
Anya stood in the center of the conservatory, her hands shaking, her heart pounding. She'd done it. She'd found the crack in his armor, the thing he was afraid of, the thing that could destroy him. She'd said the words he'd been waiting his whole life to hear, and he'd believed her.
She should feel triumph. She should feel satisfaction. She had him, now. He would give her what she needed, what her father had died trying to find. He would help her destroy his father, his legacy, everything he'd ever known.
But standing there, in the room where she'd watched him become something she never expected, she felt something else. Something she didn't want to name.
She thought of his face when she said he could be something else. The hope there, the fear, the desperate need to believe her. She thought of his hand in hers, the way he'd held on, the way he'd let her see something he'd never let anyone see.
She pressed her hand to her chest, the key at her throat cold against her skin.
She had what she needed. She had him. And now she had to figure out what to do with the thing she'd awakened.
\---
In his room, Dmitri sat on the edge of his bed, his hands shaking, his heart pounding. He could still feel her fingers on his face, the warmth of her palm, the way she'd looked at him like he was something more than what his father had made him.
You're not him, Dmitri. You never were.
He'd heard those words before, in his mother's voice, in her letters, in the things she'd left him before she died. But he'd never believed them. He'd never let himself believe that he could be anything other than what his father had made him.
He looked at the photograph on his nightstand, his mother's face, young and beautiful, her eyes grey like his. He thought of her letters, the ones she'd written before she died, the ones he'd read a thousand times.
Be brave, my love. Be the man I know you can be.
He closed his eyes, her face swimming in the darkness, her voice echoing in his ears.
He could be brave. He could be something else. He could be the man she'd always wanted him to be.
He opened his eyes, reaching for his phone, his hands steady now, his heart calm.
He knew what he had to do.
.