Chapter 7

• She mustered her brightest smile. "Cleaning."
• "Mrs. Harake—"
• "Anastasia," she interrupted, sharper than she intended as she straightened and smoothed down her uniform, wiping the sweat from her neck.
• Sandro's gaze seemed to follow her movement, but she dismissed it. He was likely worried she would stain his sheets with her sweat. "No one knows me as that here. I'd prefer it stayed that way."
• Sandro walked further into the room, shrugging off his tailored jacket. She found herself staring at his broad back as he rolled up his sleeve, revealing tattoos running down his arm. He tensed, as if sensing her scrutiny, and turned to meet her gaze. "Could you please leave?"
• An angry flush surged to her cheeks. "Why do you treat me this way? Like I annoy you?"
• "Maybe because you do," he deadpanned.
• His words stung more than they should have, and she was shocked to feel tears pricking at her eyes. She had endured worse—faced a gun to her throat at seventeen while being forced into humiliation, suffered blows so severe she passed out for refusing to behave like a compliant whore, and slept in the snow with rats nosing at her injuries. And she hadn't cried.
• Yet Sandro's harsh words brought forth tears from their hidden place behind her defenses. Grabbing her belongings, she hurried from his room, desperate to escape before he witnessed her tears.
• .....
• Sandro POV.
• Sandro had given Lizabeth one clear instruction: keep Anastasia the hell away from him. He didn't care if she spent her time at the ranch mucking out stalls or sat in the kitchen for hours. He simply wanted to avoid her long hair, her gray eyes, and, of all things, the way her figure looked in that uniform.
• It seemed no one took him seriously, because there she was, serving their guests—who certainly didn't share his reservations about eyeing her. They joked in Italian about taking her from behind, while she smiled politely in response, completely unaware as she professionally catered to their requests in English.
• It was clear the only reason they asked her for more salt was to watch her figure jiggle and peek under her skirt as she bent down.
• "Sandro?"
• He tore his gaze away from the latest source of his frustration and obsession to focus on Valerie Moore. With her beautiful, siren-green eyes, plump lips, and enticing curves, she was a far cry from Anastasia.
• For a week, he had endured countless blind dates, all at his grandmother's insistence. With Erwin in a coma and a potential violent power shift brewing in their world, he needed to continue the family line. He had to produce as many children as possible with a bride of his choosing, or else marry his brother's wife, as tradition demanded.
• But he could never do that to Erwin. It was downright disrespectful, and no matter how much he tried, he could not stand Giselle. He wouldn't even touch her with a ten-foot pole, not even if his life depended on it. Everyone knew she was marrying Erwin for the money, but could she be any more obvious, flaunting herself in skimpy outfits around his study every evening?
• Sandro stared at Valerie, half-listening to her tales of medical school, while he was reminded of his predicament. Every woman he met was inevitably compared to Anastasia. He convinced himself that he just needed to get her out of his system—just get laid. But therein lay the problem; he craved no one else's touch but hers.
• Now he found himself resenting her for igniting these feelings within him. He despised her for leaving him so hungry, so restless, and so achingly hard, all without having a clue about the effect she had on him.
• "Papa mentioned you've been away for quite some time," Valerie repeated, her silver ring glinting as she twirled the pasta around her fork, deliberately avoiding the meatballs. "I trust the expansion to Los Angeles wasn't too chaotic?"
• He met his grandmother's gaze, conveying all his displeasure at this arrangement in a single glance. She simply smiled, lifting her glass of wine to her lips. Irritation tightened in his gut, but he managed a snort, recalling David's comment when he revealed his spontaneous time off. 'Take your time.' "Chaotic doesn't even begin to describe it."
• Just then, Anastasia returned with the salt, and their eyes locked as she bent down, spilling salt across the table. His fingers gripped the glass tightly as he added, "You should visit sometime. It has quite the view."
• "Oh," Valerie laughed, her green eyes sparkling with a playful light. "I suppose I will."
• Nina nods in approval, and his resentment towards her deepens for catching him off guard.
• The hand that was swirling his drink comes to a sudden halt. His thoughts come to a standstill, and an intense rage begins to boil inside him as he turns to witness Alexander Moor's hand gripping Anastasia's backside. His fingers dig into her flesh, and he lets out a laugh when she stiffens and politely murmurs, "Let go, sir," a courtesy he does not deserve.
• A heavy silence falls over the room as every head at the table turns to the Moor heir and his notorious friend, Lauro, who playfully flicks a knife in his palm, targeting the buttons holding Anastasia's skirt together. "It'll just be a quick peek, we promise," he sneers.
• Alexander chuckles, yet his hand remains firmly in place, clutching her and sliding down until it disappears under her skirt.
• A dark fury creeps up Sandro's spine, coiling in his stomach and forcing its way up to his throat. It has a bitter taste, reminiscent of smoke and bloodlust. Something snaps inside him, and as he realizes it's his patience breaking, he feels the glass shatter in his grip. Blood pours from the new cut in his palm, mingling with the wine spilling out.
• "Oh my," Valerie exclaims as she hurriedly grabs a handkerchief. "Are you alright?"
• He struggles to respond, but his thoughts are clouded. He can't... think past Alexander's laughter and Anastasia's quiet inquiry, "Can I get you something else, sir?" Her voice may sound cold, but he has seen enough to understand the trembling of her fingers around the plate she holds, the slight quiver of her lips that she attempts to conceal behind a forced smile, and worst of all, the dull sheen in her gray eyes. She, the most fearless woman he has ever known, is terrified.
• He grips the edge of his chair, rising as his vision blurs with rage, but when Anastasia casts a pleading look across the table, staring at him with those doe eyes, he freezes. What the hell was he going to do? Swing the chair and bash it against Alexander's head, igniting a conflict with one
• of their strongest allies by killing their heir? Over a maid?