Anastasia had kissed him. She had returned his touch. But that didn't mean she would surrender.
Vincent knew that much.
As he stepped back, watching her with eyes that burned with a mix of triumph and yearning, he knew this wasn't her accepting him. Not yet.
Anastasia was a queen who bowed to no one.
She wasn't the kind of woman to fall easily, nor was she the type to let emotions dictate her actions. She had kissed him, yes, but had she truly acknowledged what it meant? Had she truly accepted him?
No.
Not yet.
Vincent had spent years chasing her, losing himself in the process. He had fallen so deep into obsession that he had forgotten where the line between love and madness lay. But now… now he knew.
This was a war.
And wars were not won in a single battle.
Anastasia, on the other hand, would try to convince herself that the kiss had been nothing more than a moment of impulse. She would push it aside, bury it beneath layers of logic and cold reasoning. She would tell herself that Vincent meant nothing to her, that he was still just a persistent fool who didn't know his place.
But deep down, she knew.
Something had changed.
She had given him a piece of herself, no matter how small.
And Vincent would not let her forget it.
In the days that followed, their interactions would shift.
Anastasia, ever the empress of her own world, would pretend as if nothing had happened. She would carry on, untouchable and cold, as if that kiss had been nothing more than a fleeting moment.
But Vincent would not allow her to erase him so easily.
He would remind her—again and again.
With every glance.
With every touch.
With every word unspoken between them.
The chase was far from over.
Anastasia might try to deny it, but she was no longer merely the one being pursued. She had unknowingly stepped into his world, and Vincent would make sure she had nowhere left to run.
Because now, he had tasted victory.
And Vincent Blackwood never lost.