The Master's Fledgling

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

--Picture above is Sophie Turner, who plays Sansa Stark on Game of Thrones, and who I can totally envision as Anastasia Colleoni. 

"Hello, Mr. Krov. It is a pleasure to meet you." Anastasia took the seat Dmitri offered, and offered him a nervous smile. "I must apologize for my tardiness. I am not usually late, I assure you. I hope this didn't inconvenience you in any way?" 

Dmitri's smile never wavered. He waved dismissfully with a perfectly groomed hand while settling back in his dark leather chair with a satisfied sigh. "Not an inconvenience at all, Miss Colleoni. As you might have heard upon entering, I was engaged in a call that ran longer than expected and didn't notice the time."

Anastasia nodded in understanding, although she honestly hadn't heard him speaking to someone else over the rush of her own blood inside her ears. "Oh, of course," was all her muddled brain could respond. She bit her lip to keep herself from saying anything embarrassingly stupid, as she was want to do on the occasions she felt out of her league intellectually. The man before her oozed confidence beyond his impeccable grooming and posture. The way his dark eyes scanned her seated, quivering form, did little to reassure her she was in the right place. Or, at least, that she was the right person for the job. Any refinement she could muster was a fragile facade to hide how young, how vulnerable, how incompetent she felt. Growing up in the Big Apple hadn't necessarily given her immunity to looming, luxurious buildings or men who could persuade nations to action with a proper look or smile. Anastasia felt that Mr. Krov could be one of those men, if he felt inclined.

Dmitri leaned forward in his seat after a moment of silent observation, propping his right elbow on the desk and resting his chin on his clenched fist. He posture resembled that of an art critique, with his head tilted slightly to the side, brows furrowed, and lips pressed tightly together.  His dark brown eyes bore through her curiously, scanning her every feature from the first glimpse of skin around her high collar and upwards. His eyes rested a long moment on her neck, partially hidden by her long canopy of straight copper hair flowing over her shoulder, and darkened to almost obsidian with a hungry sheen. The movement of her hand to touch the side of her neck where his gaze seemed most centered snapped him out of his daze, and he continued on before she could hide anything else from his roaming. His still obsidian eyes traveled higher, passing her small chin, nude glossed lips, and freckled nose with little interest, until he claimed hold of her mossy green eyes—eyes that were wide and frightened under his intense scrutiny— and stopped.

His eyes had made her light headed and void of all the wit and charm Constantin had taught her. It was all she could do to remember how to breathe with his eyes cutting through her so precisely. His scrutiny did not leave her feeling defiled, or stripped of her decency, like other wandering eyes had done in the past. Dmitri's eyes ignited icy hot trails wherever they roamed, sending her body in a spiral of mixed signals that confused her. His attention to her neck felt so sensual and intimate, as if they were forgotten lovers and not acquaintances of a few tense minutes. A sizzling flush ignited throughout her body, making her skin tingle and protest against her stifling work garb. 

The heat of Nevada's summer sun felt arctic compared to the heat she felt at being appraised like an invaluable piece of art. Something about the way Dmitri carried himself translated to a well-read, artistic, blue-blooded aristocrat. Someone who could afford to bring home whatever art piece or sculpture that caught his fancy. Anastasia felt like such a painting.