Rune scowled at him and ignored his outstretched hand in favor of pulling on the back of the dress the woman with the thick French accent and even bigger attitude made her wear. She had been poked, prodded, and pulled in every direction as the woman snapped out commands to the other women who quickly stole the thick black robe and left her shivering in the middle of the sitting room. She had fought having the color put on her face, but the woman had been adamant that she needed some. The only women that Rune knew that wore such things were not the type she wanted to be associated with.
“I’m not a w***e,” she had told the woman with a glare. “I do not color my face.”
The woman had given her a heated glare right back. “You are the mistress of Sergei Vasiliev and Dimitri Mihailov. You will
