thunk... thunk... thunk...
The rhythmic sound echoed through the manor's upper corridor as Viktor pinned the last nail into the bedframe.
He dropped the hammer, letting it clatter to the floor, and immediately fell backward onto the mattress he'd just finished constructing.
The bed bounced beneath him—really bounced—thanks to the stitched grass he'd stuffed inside the fabric casing, layering it until it formed a springy, almost luxurious surface.
The frame itself was massive, easily big enough for three or four people to sprawl across without crowding.
Viktor's chest heaved as he stared up at the ceiling beams he'd reinforced earlier that day. His muscles burned. His hands ached. Splinters still jutted from his palms where the wood had fought back.
But damn, it felt good.
He closed his eyes, breathing deep, letting the fatigue wash over him in waves. Three days. Maybe four. Maybe even less than that since he'd woken up in the past.
