Chapter 7

The impact sent a jolt through her. A familiar scent-clean, sharp, like wood and rain-filled her senses before she even looked up.

Her head snapped back. She was staring up into the cold, unreadable eyes of Knox Carter.

He looked down at her, his expression a blank mask, but his eyes were dark and intense. He didn't move, didn't push her away. He simply held her gaze.

Alya scrambled back as if she'd been burned, her cheeks flushing with heat. "I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I didn't... I was just..."

She trailed off, realizing where she was. The room was a private study, dominated by a massive, antique Chinese screen. She had stumbled into the lion's den.

Knox's gaze dropped from her face, sweeping over her. He noted the cheap fabric of her dress, the wrinkles creased into it from her flight. His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on the red marks on her shoulder where Thorne's hand had been.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. A storm gathered in his eyes, a flicker of something cold and dangerous.

The look pinned her in place. She felt like a butterfly under glass. She tried to step around him, to escape back into the hallway.

"Alya!"

The roar came from the other side of the screen. Her father.

Gilberto stormed into the room, his face purple with rage. He saw Alya, and his fury intensified. His gaze was so locked on her that he failed to scan the rest of the room. He clearly thought she was shirking her duties.

"There you are!" he bellowed, grabbing a fistful of Alya's hair and yanking her forward.

Pain exploded at her scalp. A sharp cry escaped her lips as her head was forced back.

"Dressed like a beggar, hiding in corners! Do you have any idea how much you are humiliating this family tonight?"

Tears sprang to Alya's eyes, but she bit her lip, refusing to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction.

From behind the screen, Knox's hand, which had been resting at his side, slowly curled into a fist.

Gilberto, now realizing they had an audience, grew even more flustered. To assert his authority in front of the powerful guest, to show he had his house in order, he raised his other hand.

Alya saw the motion and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the slap. The air in the room grew thick and still.

The blow never came.

A low, calm voice sliced through the tension. "Mr. Harrell."

Gilberto's hand froze in mid-air. He stared as Knox Carter stepped out from behind the screen, his expression one of cold, silent judgment. The dawning horror on Gilberto's face was absolute.

Knox took a single, deliberate step forward. The soft sound of his leather shoe on the Persian rug was louder than a gunshot.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. His gaze was a weapon, cold and sharp, aimed directly at Gilberto. The sheer, suffocating pressure of his silent disapproval was enough to make Gilberto's arm drop to his side.

"Mr. Harrell," Knox said again, his voice a low, chilling rumble. "I find displays of domestic violence... distasteful. Particularly when I am a guest in your home."

A bead of sweat trickled down Gilberto's temple. He let go of Alya's hair and instantly morphed into a fawning host. "Mr. Carter! A misunderstanding. Just a family matter."

Alya stared at Knox, her mind reeling. This man, this cold-hearted oligarch, had just intervened. For her. It didn't make sense.

Knox's gaze slid past her, as if she wasn't even there. He turned toward a small bar in the corner of the room.

Gilberto, desperate to salvage the situation, rounded on Alya. "What are you standing there for? Go to the cellar. Fetch the 1945 Romanee-Conti. Now!"

Granted a reprieve, Alya didn't need to be told twice. She turned and practically ran for the door.

As she passed Knox, she felt his eyes on her again. This time, the gaze wasn't cold. It was something else. Something intense and burning that seemed to see right through her. Gilberto, eager to please, added, "Mr. Carter, the 1945 is housed in our historical vault. Perhaps you'd care for a look while she retrieves it?"