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Something flashes in her eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. Knowing her, probably both with an emphasis on anger. "Is that what you think this is? Me trying to take over your life?"

I gesture at the room, at the scattered fabric samples and flower photographs still visible. "You just moved here and you're already treating it like your personal kingdom, holding court in front of all your admirers."

"I'm trying to make the best of an impossible situation." Her voice rises slightly.

"This conversation is over." I turn toward the door. "Clean up this mess. And don't invite anyone else into my home without asking first."

"Samuil." Her voice stops me. "We need to talk about this." A pause. "And about what happens after the wedding. About what kind of marriage this will be."

"It'll be whatever I say it is." I don't look back. "That's all you need to know."

I leave before she can respond or I say something I'll regret. The rest of the evening passes in tense silence. I retreat to my office and handle business calls, review reports, anything to avoid thinking about the woman currently living under my roof. Ana doesn't seek me out, which is probably smart on her part.

By the time midnight rolls around, the house is quiet. The staff has retired for the night, and the security team has settled into their usual positions. I should go to bed and get some sleep before tomorrow's meetings. But I'm restless, my mind refusing to settle. So I head to the library instead, thinking I'll read for a while.

The library is on the first floor, a large room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and comfortable furniture arranged near the fireplace. I push open the door quietly, not wanting to disturb the silence.

My plans are shattered the minute my eyes land on the couch. Ana is asleep on one of the leather sofas near the window. She's curled on her side, still wearing the black pants and silk blouse from earlier, her hair falling loose from its twist. An old book lies open on the cushion beside her, and I can see the title from here. The History of the Rostova and Galkin Families.

I move closer, careful not to wake her. In sleep, she looks younger and softer. More vulnerable. The book beside her is one of the oldest in my collection, a historical account written decades ago about the complicated relationship between our families.

I should wake her and send her to her room. Maintain the distance that's already too fucking thin between us. But I don't. Instead, I stand there like an idiot, watching her sleep. Noticing the way her lips part slightly with each breath and the soft rise and fall of her breasts.

My cock hardens despite my wish to remain unaffected by the princess. I want her, and my body won't let me deny it. Right now, it's urging me to pick her up, become a barbarian and sling her over my shoulder, and take her to my bedroom where I can have my way with her.

The moonlight coming through the window catches her hair, turning it silver. She shifts slightly in her sleep, and the book slides toward the edge of the sofa. I catch it before it falls, my fingers brushing the old leather cover.

Bad blood and generations of hatred. And now we're supposed to unite those bloodlines through marriage. I look down at Ana, at this princess who invaded my life and refuses to follow any of my rules. This woman who argues with me at every turn and looks at me like I'm a puzzle she's determined to solve.

And despite everything, despite the bad blood and the forced engagement and the fact that she drives me absolutely fucking crazy, I can't deny the truth settling in my gut.

I want her. And that wanting is going to destroy us both.

15

ANA

Iwake Tuesday morning in my suite at Samuil's estate with fragmented memories of the library. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, and I'm lying in the massive bed wearing the same clothes from yesterday. My silk blouse is wrinkled, my black pants twisted around my legs.

How did I get here?

I sit up slowly, trying to piece together the evening. I remember falling asleep on the leather sofa with the history book open beside me, the weight of centuries of conflict between Rostovas and Galkins pressing down on me with every page I read. Blood feuds. Betrayals. Territorial wars that lasted decades. And then nothing, just darkness and the vague sensation of being carried.

Did Samuil carry me to my room?

The thought sends heat through my body that I immediately try to suppress. I don't want to think about his arms around me, his strength, or the way he might have looked at me while I slept. I especially don't want to acknowledge the flutter in my chest at the idea of his being gentle when he thinks no one's watching.

I shower and dress in a tailored cream dress with pearl buttons, pulling my hair into a sleek low bun. The mirror reflects a composed princess, but my mind is racing with questions that won't quiet.

The marriage makes no sense, given the historical animosity between our families. Centuries of distrust don't disappear because two men decide to do business together. My father and Samuil may have found common ground in recent years, but that doesn't explain why they'd bind our families through marriage. Especially when royals don't typically marry warriors, even honored ones like Samuil.

By mid-morning, I'm dressed and ready for the Aristocrat Wives' Circle luncheon. I considered canceling, but that would be considered beyond rude. Even with a princess's prerogative that generally excuses most anything I'd do.

The luncheon is held at an exclusive restaurant downtown, a place where privacy is guaranteed and conversations never leave the room. I arrive exactly on time, neither early nor late, and am escorted to the private dining room where twelve women are already gathered.

The space is elegant without being ostentatious. Cream walls, dark wood furniture, and fresh fragrant flowers on every surface. The women are dressed impeccably, their jewelry understated but clearly expensive. Most are in their forties or fifties, though a few are younger. All of them carry themselves with the confidence that comes from real power.

I take my seat and accept a glass of champagne from the server. The conversation flows around me, light and pleasant on the surface. Discussion of upcoming charity galas, vacation homes, and their children's accomplishments. The usual topics that fill these gatherings.