Chapter Ten: The Fire Between Us

Anastasia lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts tangled and restless.

She had spent the past few nights in this room, a space that was hers only in name. The bed was soft, the sheets luxurious, but it still felt like she was sleeping in a stranger's house.

A stranger's world.

His world.

No matter how much she tried to push it from her mind, she couldn't forget the way he had touched her earlier. It had been nothing. A fleeting brush of fingers as he tucked her hair behind her ear. A simple gesture.

And yet, it lingered.

Not just the sensation.

But the meaning.

Leonidas was always calculated, always in control. He didn't do anything without purpose.

So why had he done it?

Why had he touched her so casually, so effortlessly—like it was his right?

And why—why hadn't she stopped him?

Her fingers curled into the sheets, frustration bubbling beneath her skin.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

This was a marriage of convenience, a deal between two families.

He didn't want her.

And she…

She wasn't supposed to want him either.

But the problem wasn't that she wanted him.

It was that she wasn't sure if she wanted to fight him anymore.

The next morning, Anastasia wandered through the halls, aimless, lost in thought.

She ended up in the study, a room she hadn't explored before.

It was warm in a way the rest of the house wasn't. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with carefully curated volumes. Some were worn and faded, others pristine, untouched.

She trailed her fingers along the spines, scanning the titles.

History. Literature. Philosophy.

She let out a quiet breath. Finally, something familiar.

She reached for a book, letting her fingertips graze the cover—

"I wouldn't have taken you for a history reader."

Her breath caught.

The voice was deep, smooth, entirely too close.

She turned slowly.

Leonidas leaned against the doorframe, watching her with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

His sleeves were rolled up, his stance relaxed but completely commanding.

Like he belonged here.

Like he belonged everywhere.

She swallowed.

"I like history," she said simply.

He stepped inside, his gaze flickering between the book in her hands and her face.

"Do you?"

She nodded. "It's… grounding."

His lips twitched slightly. "And you feel like you need to be grounded?"

A quiet pause.

Then, before she could think twice, she said, "Yes."

Something in his expression shifted.

A flicker of something dark.

Something dangerous.

Then, he took a slow step forward.

The space between them shrunk, the air thickening.

She should have backed away.

She didn't.

She refused to.

And he noticed.

His smirk deepened slightly, as if he was amused. As if he was waiting to see what she would do next.

She tightened her grip on the book. "I wasn't wandering," she said suddenly.

Leonidas tilted his head slightly. "No?"

"No."

She exhaled, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

"I was trying to find something in this house that felt like mine."

His expression changed.

It was subtle, barely noticeable—but she saw it.

Something flickered in his gaze.

Something possessive.

Something that told her she already belonged to him.

Whether she realized it or not.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, he moved.

It wasn't sudden.

It wasn't aggressive.

It was slow, deliberate—a quiet test.

Her breath caught as he closed the last of the distance between them, standing too close, too warm, too much.

She refused to look away.

She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he was affecting her.

But then, he reached out.

And suddenly, his hand was on her waist.

Firm. Warm. Unshakable.

She sucked in a breath.

Not because it was forceful.

Not because it scared her.

But because it didn't.

His fingers flexed slightly against her hip, an almost absent-minded motion.

Like he was testing himself just as much as he was testing her.

His thumb brushed over the fabric of her dress—soft, slow, deliberate.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She should pull away.

She should tell him to stop.

But she didn't move.

Neither did he.

She could feel his breath against her cheek, could see the sharp angles of his jaw, the quiet intensity in his eyes.

It was too much.

Too close.

Too dangerous.

Then, suddenly—he pulled away.

Stepped back.

And just like that, the fire between them crashed like a wave pulling back into the ocean, leaving her breathless, dazed, aching in a way she didn't understand.

Leonidas exhaled, slow and controlled, as if reigning himself back in.

"I'll have one of the staff bring coffee," he said.

His voice was smooth again. Detached.

Like he hadn't just undone her with a single touch.

Like he hadn't just shattered the last bit of distance between them.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Leaving her standing there, fingers trembling, heart racing, book forgotten in her hands.

She stared after him, the space he had occupied still thick with his presence.

And for the first time, she admitted it.

She wasn't fighting him anymore.

She was fighting herself.