The hallway of the Volkov estate was a drafty, stone-cold gauntlet, but Andrea barely felt the chill. Every step she took in the gold heels sent a jolt of friction up her thighs, the emerald silk of the dress sliding against her bare, sensitized skin. She could feel the tiny lace string of the panties pressing into her, a constant, sharp reminder that she was effectively naked under a layer of expensive fabric.
Mikhail stopped in front of two massive, arched oak doors. He didn't look at her—he hadn't looked at her once since they'd left the bedroom—but his jaw was set so tight Andrea thought his teeth might shatter.
"They are waiting," he muttered.
"Good," Andrea snapped, her green eyes flashing. "I'd hate to keep the wolves hungry."
She didn't wait for Mikhail to open the doors. She reached out, her fingers trembling only slightly, and shoved them open herself.
The dining hall was a cavernous space, dominated by a long, obsidian-black table and a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, aged wine, and the heavy, metallic tang of the men who sat there. There were six of them, all built like tanks, their faces hardened by years of violence.
And at the head of the table sat Viktor.
He had changed into a fresh black shirt, the top three buttons undone to reveal the ink on his collarbone and the faint, silver scar she had just given him. He was mid-sentence, a glass of blood-red wine halfway to his lips, when the doors swung open.
The room went deathly silent.
Andrea didn't shy away. She walked into the room with her head held high, the four-inch heels clicking like a metronome on the stone floor. Every time she moved, the emerald silk shifted, the plunging neckline threatening to spill her breasts out, while the high slit offered a glimpse of the pale, smooth skin of her thigh all the way up to her hip.
The reaction from the table was instantaneous and visceral.
One of the younger men, a scarred lieutenant with a shaved head, actually dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate, the sound echoing in the stillness. His eyes traveled down the length of her body, lingering on the way the silk clung to her curves, and Andrea saw his throat move as he swallowed hard.
Next to him, an older man with a grey-streaked beard narrowed his eyes. It wasn't just lust; it was a lethal curiosity. They knew who she was—the human who had saved the Pakhan—but they hadn't expected the "remedy" to look like a goddess of sin.
The air in the room didn't just get heavy; it became suffocating. The men were staring, their predatory instincts triggered by the sight of her, but as their eyes raked over her bare shoulders and the gold choker around her neck, a second emotion began to bleed through the lust.
Fear.
Because at the head of the table, Viktor had stopped breathing.
His blue eyes, usually as cold as a Siberian winter, were currently burning with a dark, molten gold. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But the glass in his hand began to tremble, the stem snapping under the sudden, impossible pressure of his grip. Red wine spilled over his fingers, looking exactly like the blood they had spilled on the tarmac.
"Andrea," he rasped. The word was a low, vibrating growl that made the men at the table flinch.
"You told me to dress for dinner, Viktor," Andrea said, her voice echoing through the hall. She stopped ten feet from the table, her hand resting on her hip, the silk bunching up to show even more leg. "I hope the green matches your decor. Or at least your ego."
Viktor's nostrils flared. He could smell it—the scent of her skin, the lingering aroma of the sandalwood bath, and the sharp, metallic tang of her defiance. But he could also smell the room. He could smell the sudden, sharp spike of arousal from the men seated at his table. He could smell the way their hearts had sped up the moment she walked in.
His wolf surged to the surface, a primal, possessive beast that wanted to tear the throats out of every man who dared to look at what was his.
"Out," Viktor commanded. It wasn't a shout. It was a sound that came from deep in his chest, a vibration of pure, unadulterated menace.
"Pakhan?" the older man ventured, his voice shaky. "The briefing—"
"I said out!" Viktor roared, slamming his bleeding hand onto the table. The wood cracked under his palm. "If I see one of you looking at her again, I will pull your eyes from your fucking skulls. Move!"
The men didn't hesitate. They scrambled away from the table, chairs screeching against the stone as they hurried toward the side exits. They didn't look back. They didn't even breathe until they were out of the room. Mikhail was the last to leave, pulling the massive doors shut behind him with a heavy, final thud.
Andrea stood alone in the center of the hall, her heart hammering against her ribs. The silence was worse than the noise—it was a vacuum, filled only by the crackle of the fireplace and the sound of Viktor's heavy, ragged breathing.
Viktor stood up slowly. He didn't look like a man anymore. He looked like a storm given human shape. He walked around the table, his steps silent and lethal, until he was standing directly in front of her.
He was so hot she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He reached out, his hand—stained red with wine and his own blood—clamping around her jaw. He forced her head back, his thumb pressing hard against her lower lip.
"You did this on purpose," he hissed, his gold eyes boring into her green ones. "You walked in here knowing what they would see. Knowing what I would do."
"I wore what you bought me, Viktor!" she snapped, though her voice was breathless. The friction of the silk against her pussy was becoming unbearable, a slow, throbbing ache that made her want to lean into him. "If you didn't want them to look, you should have bought me a fucking turtleneck."
"I bought this for my eyes only," he growled. His other hand slid down, his palm flat against the bare skin of her back, his fingers tangling in the gold chains. He pulled her flush against him, her soft breasts crushing against his hard, tattooed chest. "Do you have any idea how close I am to shifting right here? To marking you in front of that door so they can hear you scream my name?"
"Then do it," Andrea challenged, her sass masking the sheer, terrifying arousal flooding her system. "Stop talking about it and show me exactly how 'possessed' you are, you overgrown dog."
Viktor's pupils blew wide, swallowing the gold. He didn't say another word. He simply grabbed the front of the emerald silk and ripped.