The light in Siberia didn't wake you up; it pierced you. It was a pale, surgical grey that bled through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, frozen ghosts.
Andrea shifted, and a sharp, localized ache radiated from her hips. It was a deep, bone-weary soreness that made her breath hitch. Her skin felt too tight, sensitized by the friction of the obsidian table and the raw, aggressive power of the man who had claimed her on it.
She was alone in the massive bed. The silk sheets, black as a bruise, were cool against her bare skin, but the scent of him was everywhere. Pine, leather, and that dark, masculine musk that now seemed to be woven into the very fabric of her lungs.
She rolled onto her side, wincing as the movement tugged at the sensitive skin of her neck. She reached up, her fingers grazing the spot where Viktor had marked her. The skin was raised, a swollen map of his possession that pulsed with every heartbeat.
"God," she whispered, her voice a dry, ruined rasp.
She looked at her hands. They were clean. Viktor must have carried her up here, washed the wine and the fluids from her skin while she was drifting in that post-climax haze. The thought should have been sweet, but it felt like a violation. He had handled her while she was defenseless, erasing the evidence of her "Table Discipline" just so he could start with a clean slate today.
The physical reality of the knotting was still there, though. A heavy, dull pressure deep in her womb, a lingering reminder of the way he had locked himself inside her. She felt... occupied. Even with him gone from the room, she felt like he was still there, his claim echoing in the very marrow of her bones.
A sharp, rhythmic clicking sound made her stiffen.
The double doors to the suite swung open without a knock. Andrea scrambled to pull the silk duvet up to her chin, her green eyes wide and defensive.
Galina marched into the room. She was dressed in the same severe black dress as the night before, her grey hair pulled back with such violence it made Andrea's own scalp ache. Behind her, two young maids followed, carrying a tray of food and a fresh stack of linens.
Galina stopped at the foot of the bed, her flint-grey eyes sweeping over the room. She didn't miss the ruined emerald silk dress discarded in a heap by the door, nor the way Andrea was clutching the duvet like a shield. Her gaze landed on the mark on Andrea's neck, and her mouth thinned into a line of pure, unadulterated coldness.
"The Pakhan is in the study with the Council," Galina said, her voice a raspy, low croak. "He has ordered that you are to be bathed, dressed, and ready for his inspection by noon."
"Inspection?" Andrea snapped, her sass flickering back to life like a dying ember. "What am I, a prize heifer? Tell him I'm busy having a moral crisis and a possible case of internal bruising."
The two maids shared a terrified glance, their eyes darting to the floor. Galina, however, didn't flinch. She stepped closer, the smell of lavender and starch preceding her.
"You are the Pakhan's chosen," Galina said, her tone devoid of any warmth. "In this house, that means you are a reflection of his power. Look at you. You look like a gutter cat that has been dragged through a briar patch."
"I was dragged through an alley, a supernatural wolf-homicide, and a dinner table, Galina. Give me a fucking break."
"You will not use such language in this wing," Galina hissed. She gestured to the maids. "Clean this. The sheets are to be burned."
Andrea's face burned a bright, humiliating red. She knew why the sheets had to be burned. The evidence of Viktor's release—the thick, hot torrent of seed he had pumped into her—was likely stained into the silk.
"I can wash myself," Andrea said, her jaw tightening. "And I don't need an audience."
"You will do as you are told," Galina countered. She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh set of clothes—a heavy, cream-colored cashmere sweater and a pair of tailored wool trousers. "The Pakhan does not like to be kept waiting. And he does not like his property looking disheveled."
"I am not his property!" Andrea yelled, finally throwing the duvet aside and sitting up.
She didn't care that she was naked. She didn't care that the bruises on her hips were visible, or that her dark brown hair was a wild, matted mess. She stood up, her legs trembling but her green eyes blazing with a lethal defiance.
"I am a guest. At best, I'm a prisoner of war. But I am not a lamp, and I am not a dog, and I am definitely not a 'remedy' that you get to polish whenever he feels like it."
Galina looked her up and down, her expression unchanged. "You think your fire makes you special, little nurse? I have seen many girls like you come through these gates. Some were princesses. Some were peasants. All of them thought they could tame the Wolf."
Galina leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that chilled Andrea more than the Siberian wind.
"The Wolf does not be tamed. He consumes. And by the look of that mark on your throat, he has already started eating."
Galina turned and walked toward the bathroom, the maids scurrying after her. "The water is ready. Do not make me come back and drag you into it."
Andrea stood in the center of the room, the cold air of the suite biting at her bare skin. She looked at the door, then at the window where the grey light offered no hope of escape.
She felt the ache between her legs again—a dull, rhythmic throb that seemed to mock her defiance. Her body was still humming from the way he had handled her, her pussy still slick with the remnants of his claim.
"Eat him alive, huh?" Andrea whispered to herself, her fingers tracing the bite on her neck. "We'll see who's still standing when the snow melts, you old bat."
She walked toward the bathroom, her heels clicking on the stone, every step a painful reminder that the 'Midnight Debt' was a bill she would be paying for a very, very long time.