The cabin of the Gulfstream was a tomb of silence, save for the low, rhythmic thrum of the engines pushing them through the stratospheric dark. The soft, amber glow of the recessed lighting reflected off the polished mahogany, casting long, flickering shadows across Viktor's sprawled form.
Andrea stood over him, her hands still stained with a mixture of dirt and his cooling blood. She'd found the medical kit in a hidden compartment—a heavy, professional-grade case that contained everything from morphine to high-tensile sutures. She didn't ask why a private jet needed a trauma station; she just focused on the red.
"You're awake," she said, her voice sounding far away even to her own ears. She didn't look at his face. She couldn't. Not after seeing what had happened on the tarmac. Her brain was trying to process the image of the white beast, but the man sitting in front of her was far too solid, far too real.
Viktor didn't answer immediately. He lay back in the oversized leather recliner, the blanket she'd thrown over him at the airstrip now sliding down to his waist. His chest was a roadmap of violence—fresh, jagged claw marks from the hunters crisscrossed his existing tattoos, weeping a dark, sluggish red.
"I am awake," he rasped. His voice was a sandpaper crawl, deep and vibrating.
"Stay still. I need to clean these. They're not healing like the bullet wound." Andrea knelt between his legs, her green eyes fixed on a particularly deep gouge just below his collarbone.
"Alpha wounds take time," Viktor murmured. He reached out, his hand—massive and calloused—grazing her arm as she reached for the antiseptic. "Even for me."
Andrea flinched, but she didn't pull away. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, a thick, heavy pulse that seemed to synchronize with her own racing heart. She soaked a pad in saline and began to dab at the gore.
"You're a mess, Viktor. You're covered in pieces of... whatever those things were." She tried to keep her voice steady, tried to maintain the cold, professional wall she'd spent years building.
But as she worked, the scent of him began to fill her lungs. It wasn't the smell of blood anymore. It was something deeper—the scent of rain-drenched pine, warm skin, and an aggressive, masculine musk that made the back of her throat itch. It was a smell that didn't belong in a sterile ER or a lecture hall. It belonged in the wild.
Her fingers brushed against the hard muscle of his pectoral, and a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity shot up her arm. Andrea's breath hitched. Her hands, usually steady even in the most chaotic shifts, began to tremble.
"Your heart is loud, Andrea," Viktor whispered.
"It's the caffeine," she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She poured a generous amount of antiseptic onto a fresh sponge. "Hold your breath. This is going to sting."
She pressed the sponge into the wound. Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just watched her, his blue eyes tracking every movement of her lips, every blink of her lashes.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she hissed, her face flushing. The cabin felt suddenly, oppressively small. The air-conditioned oxygen was being replaced by a thick, carnal tension that made her skin feel too tight for her body.
"I am looking at the woman who didn't run," Viktor said. He sat up slowly, the blanket falling away completely to reveal the heavy, vein-ridged muscles of his abdomen.
Andrea tried to look away, but her eyes betrayed her. She stared at the raw power of him—the way his skin moved over his ribs, the dark hair that trailed down into the shadow of his lap. Her mouth went dry. A slow, insistent throb started deep in her belly, a heavy ache that made her thighs feel heavy and weak.
No. Not him. Not now, her mind screamed. But her body wasn't listening.
She felt a dampness between her legs, a sudden, slick heat that made her want to press her knees together. It was a betrayal—a primal reaction to the man sitting inches from her. Her brain was shouting that he was a kidnapper, a monster, a criminal; her body was only recognizing a predator who had just protected his territory.
"I didn't run because I don't have a choice," she managed to say, her voice trembling. "There's a difference between bravery and having nowhere else to go."
"Is there?" Viktor reached out, his hand sliding behind her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. He leaned in, his scent overwhelming her, drowning out the smell of the antiseptic. "I can smell you, Kotenok. I can smell the way your pulse has spiked. I can smell the heat on your skin."
Andrea's eyes went wide. "You... you can't say things like that. That's—"
"That is the truth." He pulled her closer, his strength effortless. He guided her hand, still holding the sponge, and pressed it flat against his heart.
Andrea's palm burned. Under the heat of his skin, she felt it—the heavy, powerful thud of his heart, slow and steady as a war drum. It was terrifyingly fast, echoing her own.
"My wolf is settled by your touch," he growled, the sound vibrating against her fingertips. "And you... you are fighting a battle you have already lost."
"I hate you," she whispered, even as she felt herself leaning into his touch. Her head was light, her vision swimming. She wanted to slap him, to scream at him, to jump out of the plane—but all she could do was stare at the dark fringe of his lashes and the cruel, beautiful line of his mouth.
"Hate me later," Viktor rasped.
He moved with a speed that left her gasping. He hauled her up, pinning her back against the mahogany cabinet that housed the medical supplies. Andrea's legs gave way, but he caught her, his hand sliding up under her ruined scrubs, his palm hot against her bare thigh.
"Viktor, stop... your men are right outside that door..."
"My men hear nothing I do not want them to hear," he said, his teeth grazing her earlobe.
He hiked her leg up, hooking it over his hip. Through the thin fabric of her scrub pants, Andrea could feel him—the thick, heavy length of his cock, already hard and pulsing against her. It was a terrifying, solid weight.
He didn't pull her pants down. He didn't have to. He just pressed himself against her, the friction through the fabric enough to make Andrea let out a strangled, desperate moan.
"Look at me, Andrea."
She looked. His blue eyes were gone, replaced by that molten, predatory gold. The beast was right there, just beneath the surface, staring at her with a hunger that was absolute.
"You want me to stop?" he challenged, his thumb pressing hard against her lower lip. "Say the word. Tell me you don't feel this."
The word was on the tip of her tongue. Stop. No. Leave me alone. But as she looked into that golden gaze, as she felt the raw, unadulterated power of him against her, the words died in her throat. Her body was screaming for the contact, for the release, for the very thing she feared.
She didn't say anything. She just reached up, her fingers tangling in his dark brown hair, and pulled his head down toward hers.
Viktor let out a low, animalistic huff of victory, but before their lips could touch, the intercom hissed to life.
"Pakhan. We are entering Russian airspace. Estimated landing at the dacha in forty minutes."
The spell shattered. Andrea jerked back, her heart racing as she scrambled to fix her scrubs. The gold in Viktor's eyes faded back to blue, but the hunger remained, dark and cold.
"Clean yourself up, Andrea," he said, his voice dropping back to its icy, controlled rasp. "And get some sleep. When we land, your old life is officially over. And your new one... well, your new one begins in my bed."
Andrea stared at him, her chest heaving, her skin still humming from his touch. She didn't say a word. She just grabbed her bag and locked herself in the jet's lavatory, leaning against the door as she finally let the tears fall.