The click of the bathroom door was a final, sharp punctuation to Viktor's departure. Andrea stayed frozen for a heartbeat, her wet toes curling against the cold marble, her chest heaving as if she'd just run a marathon. The air where he'd been standing still felt thick, charged with that heavy, predatory heat that seemed to seep into her very pores.
"Ten minutes," she hissed at the closed door. "Bastard."
She wiped the condensation from the mirror with a trembling hand. Her reflection looked back at her—eyes wide and pupils blown, her throat flushed a deep, tell-tale pink. The mark on her neck was darkening, a bruised testament to his teeth. She looked less like a nursing student and more like a woman who had been dragged through a storm and come out the other side changed.
She dried herself with a towel that felt like a cloud, the thick cotton soaking up the moisture but doing nothing to cool the fire under her skin.
Stepping back into the bedroom, she found the massive, dark wood wardrobe standing open. It looked like an altar to excess. Rows of silk, cashmere, and leather hung in a perfect, color-coordinated line. These weren't just clothes; they were a costume for the life he was forcing her into.
In the center, hanging alone on a velvet-padded hanger, was the dress.
Andrea stopped breathing. It was a slip of midnight-emerald silk, so dark it was almost black, designed to catch the light with every movement. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric. It was impossibly thin, feeling like cool water against her skin.
"You have to be joking," she whispered.
She lifted the hanger. The dress was a masterpiece of structural engineering and slutty intent. It had no back, just a series of thin, gold chains that would crisscross her spine, and a neckline that plunged so low it would barely cover her nipples. There was a slit up the side that started at the mid-thigh, designed to showcase exactly how much leg she had.
Beside it, laid out on a small velvet tray, was a pair of matching silk panties—a tiny triangle of lace and string—and a gold-and-emerald choker that looked more like a collar than jewelry. There was no bra. There couldn't be. Not with a dress that was essentially a second skin.
"He wants a show," she muttered, her jaw tightening. "He wants me to walk down there looking like a high-end hooker."
She looked at her ruined scrubs in the corner. They were a reminder of the girl who had a 4.0 GPA and a plan. But she couldn't wear blood-stained cotton to a Pakhan's table.
Andrea took a deep breath and stepped into the silk.
The fabric slid over her hips with a sickeningly sensual rustle. It was cold at first, then it warmed instantly against her skin, clinging to every curve. Without a bra, her breasts felt heavy and exposed, her nipples peaking against the thin silk as the cool air of the bedroom hit her.
She turned around, reaching behind her to hook the gold chains. It was a struggle, her fingers fumbling with the tiny clasps, her skin prickling as she imagined Viktor's large, calloused hands doing this instead.
When she finally got it secured, she looked in the full-length mirror.
The dress didn't just fit; it looked like it had been molded to her body while the silk was still liquid. The emerald green made her eyes look like fire, and the dark brown of her hair, still damp and wavy, tumbled over her bare shoulders. Every time she breathed, the silk shifted, the fabric grazing over her clit and making her stomach flip.
She was bare underneath, the tiny lace string of the panties the only thing between her pussy and the world. She could feel the dampness there again, a slow, hot ache that made her want to rub her thighs together. She was soaking for him, drenching the expensive silk because her body was a traitor that didn't care about her pride.
"Fuck you, Viktor," she whispered to her reflection.
She picked up the gold choker. It was heavy, the metal cool against her throat. As she snapped it shut, she felt the weight of it—a physical reminder of the 'Midnight Debt.' She wasn't Andrea the student tonight. She was the Pakhan's remedy.
She found a pair of gold, strappy heels at the bottom of the wardrobe. They were four inches high, forcing her to stand with her back arched and her ass tilted, emphasizing the curve of her hips.
She looked at the clock. Nine minutes.
She grabbed a brush and ran it through her hair, letting the dark waves fall where they wanted. She didn't have makeup, but she didn't need it. Her skin was glowing, her lips were swollen from his touch, and her eyes were bright with a lethal, green defiance.
She took one last look at the room—the gilded cage that was now her home—and walked toward the door. Every step made the silk slide against her bare skin, the friction a constant, erotic reminder of exactly what was waiting for her at the end of the hall.
She didn't knock. She didn't wait. She threw the double doors open and stepped into the hallway, her heels clicking like a countdown on the stone floor.
Mikhail was waiting for her, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second as he took in the sight of her. He quickly looked away, a flush creeping up his scarred neck.
"This way... Andrea," he muttered, his voice thick.
"Don't choke on your tongue, Mikhail," she snapped, her voice sharp and cold. "Just lead the way. I've got a debt to pay."