Anastasia stood in the room, her back pressed lightly against the wall, her breath shallow and her face burning crimson. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, loud enough she feared Dante might hear it through the silence. She clenched her trembling fingers into her palm, biting down on her lower lip until she could taste the faintest hint of blood. Her mind spun with confusion, and no matter how hard she tried to push the thoughts away, his face—Dante's face—kept replaying in her head.
Why did he look at her like that?
Why did he touch her like he owned her?
Why did his eyes linger, not with disdain, but with something that scorched her skin?
