Anton let out a long, weary sigh, checking his watch. "The man has his preferences, Kit. Some people don't like the noise of the Void. They want the atmosphere of a five-star suite, not the smell of stale beer and desperation." He paused, leaning closer. "Even Ji-Hoon hasn't dealt with a client of this caliber before, and he’s the best in the private department. But since he’s out..."
Kit looked away, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The red gloss on his lips looked like a warning sign. He didn't like the sound of a "client like this"—it smelled like trouble, even if he couldn't smell pheromones.
"Does he know about my rules?" Kit asked, his voice losing its sarcastic bite. "No physical intimacy. No touching the performer. I dance, I take the money, I leave. Did you make that clear?"
Anton nodded firmly. "I told his people. The rules were part of the contract. He just wants to see the legend of 'Peaches' for himself. You’re a curiosity to these people, Kit. A scentless Omega who looks like that? To an Alpha with too much money, you're a rare collectible."
Kit snorted, grabbing his bag and shoving the synthetic peach spray inside. "A collectible. Great. Just make sure the driver knows I’m on a timer."
He stood up, "Fifteen thousand better be just the start. If he so much as breathes on me, I’m doubling the price or biting a piece out of him too."
..,....
The taxi pulled away, leaving Kit standing on the curb of the Sokolov Imperial Hotel. He pulled his heavy coat tighter against the biting Moscow wind, adjusted the headscarf hiding his sweat-damp hair, and looked up.
The building was a monster of glass and gold, glowing like a torch in the dark winter sky. Kit had performed in some high-end places, but this was different.
This was SK territory. The logo was everywhere—etched into the glass, embossed on the uniforms of the stone-faced security guards, and pulsing in neon at the very top.
"Wow," Kit muttered, his breath hitching in the cold. "Expensive. I bet I’m the only person in a three-mile radius who can’t afford their own heating. Shitty life. I’m sure people in there bathe in milk and give their kids gold bars for lunch money."
He let out a sharp tsk and started toward the entrance. His sneakers, worn thin and caked with the grey slush of the Moscow streets, made a wet, rhythmic squelch-slap sound against the pristine, heated sidewalk.
As the gold-plated revolving doors swept him inside, the silence of the lobby hit him like a physical weight. It was too quiet. Too perfect.
Kit felt the eyes immediately. The guests—Alphas in tailored wool coats and Omegas dripping in diamonds—turned their heads. Kit knew what he looked like: a smudge of dirt on a silk sheet. His dirty sneakers left faint, muddy prints on the white marble floor.
Don’t cause trouble, Anton’s voice echoed in his head.
These people aren’t just rich. They’re dangerous. Do the job, get the cash, go home.
Kit swallowed his pride, muttering the instructions to himself like a prayer as he approached the massive mahogany reception desk.
"I have a... private appointment," Kit said, his voice sounding raspier than usual. He slid the black-and-gold card Anton had given him across the counter.
The receptionist, a woman with hair pulled back so tight it looked painful, looked at the card, then looked at Kit.
Her eyes traveled from his hooded head, down to his smeared stage makeup, and finally landed on his trashed sneakers. A visible ripple of disgust crossed her face. She didn't even try to hide it.
Kit’s jaw tightened. His fingers cat-clawed against the wood. He wanted to lean over and ask her if she’d like to see his "pretty face" up close so he could bite her nose off, but he forced a fake, sugary smile instead.
Those five figures better be worth this, he thought bitterly.
"Penthouse elevator. Gold key," she said, her voice dripping with condescension as she handed him a heavy metal fob. She didn't even say 'thank you' or 'welcome.'
"Charming," Kit hissed under his breath. He turned on his heel, his sneakers letting out a loud, defiant SQUEAK against the marble as he headed for the elevators.
Kit stood in front of the massive double doors, huffing a breath that fogged in the hallway's climate-controlled air. He checked the gold-flecked card in his hand.
"Room 001. This is it," he muttered, his ego flaring up to mask his nerves. "I'm the one being paid a fortune to be here. He's the one who booked last minute. I definitely shouldn't knock. He should be waiting by the door with an apology and a drink."
He swiped the card against the sleek, handle-less reader.
Red light.
He swiped it again, faster.
Red light.
He flipped the card, tried the back, tried the side, and eventually just started jamming it into the sensor like he was trying to stab the door. After the seventh failed attempt, Kit let out a low growl of pure American frustration.
He snatched the card out and literally bit the corner of the plastic, his teeth grinding against it.
"Piece of shitty expensive trash!" he hissed, his anger boiling over. Forget the 'no trouble' rule. He raised a fist and started banging on the gold-leafed wood.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
"Hey! Open the—"
His fist froze mid-air.
The air behind him didn't just get colder—it grew heavy, like the atmospheric pressure before a lightning strike.
A shadow stretched over him, tall and terrifyingly broad, swallowing Kit’s smaller frame completely.
"Chto ty delayesh u moyey dveri??" (What are you doing at my door?)
The voice was a deep, tectonic rumble, vibrating through the floorboards and straight up into Kit’s heels. It was a thick, melodic Russian accent, dark as espresso and just as bitter.
For the first time in his twenty-five years, Kit felt something stir in his stomach that he couldn't explain. It wasn't just the usual annoyance.
It was like a choir of birds singing in his chest while butterflies fought a war in his gut. His legs, usually sturdy and rebellious, felt like they were turning into half-melted wax. He’d lived in Russia for twelve years, he’d heard thousands of Alphas speak, but he had never heard a voice that sounded like this.
Kit slowly turned around, his neck craning back... and back... and back.
The man was a giant. He had hair as white as a Siberian blizzard and eyes that looked like frozen steel. He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than Kit’s entire twelve story apartment block, and the scent coming off him—the sharp, electric sting of Ozone—was so thick it should have been visible.
The man’s expression was murderous. He repeated himself, his voice dropping an octave, sounding truly dangerous now.
"Ya sprosil, kto ty i pochemu ty lomayesh moyu dver" (I asked who you are and why you are breaking my door.)
Kit just stared. His mouth opened slightly, then closed.
Here was the problem: Kit was a lazy bastard. He had lived in Moscow for over a decade, but he had never bothered to learn more than five words of Russian, mostly "hello," "coffee," and several very creative curse words.
He didn't have a clue what the handsome Russian giant was saying.
The Alpha, meanwhile, felt a flicker of genuine confusion. He was currently in the early stages of his Root (his cycle), and his pheromones were at a lethal, dominant high.
Any Omega within a city block should have been on their knees, trembling or baring their neck in submission.
But this small, messy creature in a headscarf and dirty sneakers just stood there, looking at him with wide, blank eyes. He wasn't shaking. He wasn't bowing. He was just... staring.
Is he deaf? the Alpha wondered, his eyes narrowing. Or is he actually arrogant enough to ignore a Sokolov?
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