The descent into Russia felt like falling into a void. When the wheels of the Gulfstream finally touched down on a private, snow-slicked runway, the transition was so smooth it was almost sickening. Outside, the world was a monochromatic blur of black pines and blinding white drifts, illuminated only by the harsh, sweeping beams of the estate's security detail.
Andrea stepped off the plane, and the Russian winter hit her like a physical blow. The air didn't just feel cold; it felt sharp, like a million tiny needles pressing into her exposed skin. She pulled Viktor's oversized leather jacket tighter around her chest, her breath hitching in a plume of silver mist.
"Welcome home, Pakhan."
The voice belonged to a man standing at the base of the stairs. He was built like a tank, his face a roadmap of scars, dressed in a tactical coat that looked heavy enough to stop a bullet. He didn't look at Andrea. To him, she was just another piece of luggage Viktor had brought back from the States.
Viktor stepped down beside her, his presence a sudden, radiating heat against the biting wind. He didn't look tired anymore. The exhaustion of the flight had been replaced by a cold, sharpened authority that made Andrea's stomach do a slow, uneasy roll.
"Everything is prepared, Mikhail?" Viktor asked, his voice slipping into Russian for a moment before he glanced at Andrea and switched back to English.
"Yes. The perimeter is secure. The staff is waiting."
A black SUV, armored and idling with a low, menacing growl, sat waiting for them. Viktor gripped Andrea's elbow—not roughly, but with a terrifyingly casual possessiveness—and steered her toward the vehicle.
The drive was twenty minutes of pure silence. Andrea pressed her forehead against the bulletproof glass, watching the forest fly by. There were no streetlights, no signs of life, nothing but the endless, suffocating dark of the Siberian wilderness. When the iron gates finally appeared, rising out of the snow like the teeth of some prehistoric beast, she felt the last tether to her old life snap.
The Volkov estate wasn't a house. It was a fortress.
Built of dark stone and heavy timber, it loomed over the landscape, its windows glowing with an amber light that looked more like a warning than a welcome. It was beautiful in a way that made Andrea's heart ache—grand, ancient, and utterly terrifying.
The SUV came to a halt in a circular driveway cleared of snow. As the door was opened for them, Andrea stepped out and found herself facing a line of people stood perfectly still in the freezing cold.
"This is the household staff," Viktor said, his voice dropping into that dark, smooth rasp.
At the front of the line stood a woman who looked like she had been carved out of the same stone as the house. Her grey hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful, and her black dress was buttoned to the chin. Her eyes, as sharp and cold as flint, swept over Andrea's ruined scrubs and messy hair with blatant disapproval.
"This is Galina," Viktor continued, his hand settling on the small of Andrea's back. "She manages the estate. If you need anything, you ask her. If you defy her, you answer to me."
Galina stepped forward, her gaze lingering on the dark, fading mark on Andrea's neck where Viktor had bitten her on the plane. "Pakhan," she said, her voice a low, raspy croak. She turned her attention to Andrea. "You are thin. And you smell of the city. We will have to fix that."
"I don't need 'fixing,'" Andrea snapped, the sass finally bubbling up through her shock. "I need a shower, a phone, and a legal explanation for why I'm currently in a different hemisphere without my consent."
One of the younger maids in the line let out a tiny, stifled gasp. Galina's eyes narrowed into slits.
"You speak when you are spoken to," Galina said, her tone as sharp as a whip.
"I'm a nursing student, not a Victorian servant," Andrea retorted, though she felt the weight of Viktor's hand tighten on her waist. "I have a voice, and I'm pretty sure the first thing it wants to do is ask where the exit is."
Viktor let out a low, vibrating chuckle that sent a shiver down Andrea's spine. "Galina has no patience for games, Kotenok. I suggest you learn that quickly."
He turned to the scarred man, Mikhail. "Take her to the East Wing. The master suite. She is not to leave the room until I have finished my briefing with the Council."
"Wait, the master suite?" Andrea jerked her arm away, her green eyes wide. "We had an agreement on the plane, Viktor! You said I'd get my own space!"
"I said you would be mine," Viktor corrected, his blue eyes flashing with that predatory gold for a split second. "And in this house, what is mine stays where I can see it. Mikhail?"
The massive guard stepped forward, his shadow falling over her. Andrea looked at Mikhail, then at Galina's cold face, then back at the iron gates she could no longer see. The reality of the 'Gilded Cage' hit her with the force of a tidal wave. She wasn't a guest. She wasn't a medic. She was a prize.
"Fine," Andrea hissed, her jaw tight. "But if I find any hidden cameras in that room, I'm going to start 'archiving' your expensive furniture with a fire axe."
Mikhail gestured toward the massive oak doors of the foyer. Andrea stomped past him, her head held high even as her knees threatened to buckle.
As she walked through the entrance, she caught a glimpse of the interior—towering ceilings, massive stone fireplaces, and walls lined with ancient weapons and leather-bound books. It was a tomb of history and blood, and as the heavy doors slammed shut behind her, the sound was as final as a casket lid.
Viktor watched her go, his nostrils flaring as he caught the fading scent of her defiance on the cold air.
"She is... spirited, Pakhan," Mikhail murmured, watching Andrea's retreating back.
"She is a fire in the middle of a blizzard, Mikhail," Viktor said, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. "And I have every intention of letting her burn me alive."