"You're going to spend time with Francis today, so I suggest you get dressed."

Natasha stood at the doorway of her daughter's room, a mild look of disconnect haphazardly strewn about her face. The mother was not in a pleasant mood today. She hardly ever was, but this morning was especially terrible.

"Alright." Anna had just gotten up herself, and was poised at the edge of her bed, nightgown in disarray and hair even more ruined.

Natasha left the room and Anna sighed.

A bit of hatred dropped into her heart. It made her sick. But that was normal. One could not possibly describe how much Anna detested her so called mother. Natasha's presence was enough to cause the daughter's grey heart to turn charred black. Anna was a tornado and Natasha was a hurricane. They simply did not go together well.

She got dressed.

Plain blue top. Buttons.

Black trousers.

Suspenders.

Anna brushed through her tarnished locks and tied them back. Something near to a bun, but so disorganized it could have been just about anything.

Then she shoved on those fine shoes and met up with Francis. He had been waiting patiently at the breakfast table, smelling of the outdoors and cigarettes.

Anna lit one herself.

"Jesus Christ, child! Do you always have to dress that way? I can almost accept it when you're home by yourself, but you're going to be out with a man today!"

"Madame, it's quite fine. Anna can dress however she pleases. After all, how else am I to see how she truly is? Non-allow her to be herself."

Natasha glanced to her husband, wearing broken brows and half of a snarl.

Ivan just waved her off. "Anna is an adult now. She's not going to dress any other way unless it's what she desires."

The mother wanted to roll her eyes, but gathered the strength to resist.

Breakfast continued, and Anna ate in silence, casting occasional glances to her father and Dmitri. Bonfeuille was entirely ignored. However, nothing was said to anyone, so it wasn't entirely noticeable.

However, Francis picked up on it. And he noticed because his morning was spent staring at the young woman he was to marry. There was something of a fascination contained within his eyes. Anna was strange. And she was beautiful. And cruel. Which made her even more interesting.

Oh, this would be fun.

After they ate their meals, Francis followed Anna from the room.

"I was told I had to spend time with you today."

"You don't have to do anything, Miss Ivanovna. You're an adult."

"The only people who would say that are the ones who know absolutely nothing about me, or my mother for that matter. The fact is you do what Natasha says you do."

"Well, you're rebellious."

"Yes."

"Why don't you simply refuse her?"

"Don't you think I've tried to do so? Tell me, is it easier to be beaten every day or to simply do as she wants and move on?" They were moving towards Anna's room.

"She must get tired of giving out beatings so often."

They entered through the porthole.

"It's not about how tired she gets." Anna began to unbutton her shirt. "Natasha doesn't tire easily anyway." The cottons slipped from her shoulders.

"Miss Ivanovna, what are you doing?"

"I'm showing you something." Her back became nude, and was given to Francis.

Immediate disgust stirred within his blood, and those curious French hands traced over her flesh.

There were numerous scars lining the woman's hide. Thick ones, thin ones. Some were even somewhat shiny, and far whiter than the rest of tone. It was like staring at a beautiful painting ruined by a fire. Someone had rescued it before the entire thing burned, but much of it was still scorched and tarnished.

Francis allowed his fingers to those welds, each one ugly and strangely appealing at the same time.

"Did she whip you, Anna?"

"With a belt." The garment was pulled back on, and a sad memory came floating back into the forefront of the beaten princess' mind.

She must have been about twelve, perhaps thirteen. And her father had been away on business. Something wrong had been done, and it was her fault. It was always her fault.

Natasha had beaten her terribly with Ivan's belt. The greatest one had been selected. Black leather with a bright silver buckle, smooth and classy.

Anna attempted to stop it with her little hand, and the mother only hit her harder.

And as she bit her lip, trying to murder the cries that were exiting her mouth, Natasha grabbed her by the elbow and threw her out, into the cold. There was no snow upon the ground yet. The winter was only just beginning. But that did not take the sting from the air, and it did not make the temperature increase. It was freezing, and the poor child was only wearing a thin night gown.

Then, the doors were locked. All of them.

And Anna was left there until three o' clock in the morning, until one of her brothers opened the door and allowed her inside.

Yes. That was why she did not fight back.

The punishment only becomes worse.

"Never touch my scars again. I hate that."

"Yes, Miss Ivanovna. I'm sorry."

Anna cast the man a hard sort of stare, as though to say, 'you don't know what sorry is. You've never been in my position.

'You don't understand.'

"What are we doing today, Bonfeuille?"

"Whatever you please. I'm absolutely fine with anything."

"Well, I'm taking a walk. You're welcome to come along."

So Francis and Anna went outside together. Neither really spoke. The woman had nothing to say and the man couldn't think of a single suitable word. It was difficult to formulate sentences, after seeing such a ruined piece of art. Natasha had taken something beautiful and blown it to pieces.

It bothered him greatly.

Anna's usual coldness did not even have an effect upon him. At least, he could understand why.

Francis Bonfeuille wished to save this girl-this rose, from her ludicrous gardener. Natasha would likely tear away all those petals if she had the chance, sputtering nonsense of growth as she went on.

They returned home and the entire estate was silent.

The Russian princess returned to her painting.

Francis, to his thoughts.