"I’ll only... I’ll scratch your back cause it's too much," Kit mumbled, his voice muffled by the Alpha’s neck.

 He forced his heavy, leaden arms to move, his nails dragging weakly against the fresh scabs on Maksim's spine. "But I'm not biting you. And don't you dare bite my neck. Bite my shoulder, my chest, bite my arm or anything else... but not the neck."

 Maksim’s hips paused mid-grind, his chest vibrating with a low, questioning hum.

 "We are not lovers," Kit whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as he clung to Maksim’s heat. "We don't know each other. This is still... just a business transaction. I’m an just a performer, and you’re a high-profile client with a very long-lasting problem. That’s all."

 Maksim’s grip on Kit’s waist tightened, his fingers nearly meeting around the Omega’s small frame.

 The word "business" felt like a splash of cold water in the middle of a fever dream. Any other Omega would have been begging for a mating bite by the fifth round, desperate to claim a piece of the Sokolov empire.

 But here was this little ghost, trembling and broken in his lap, still drawing a line in the sand.

 "Business," Maksim repeated, the word sounding like a curse in his deep Russian accent. He let out a dark, dry chuckle. "You are the most stubborn creature I have ever encountered, Persicheck."

 He respected the boundary, but he didn't stop. He began to move again, but as promised, it was slow. It was a agonizingly deep, sliding friction that made Kit’s toes curl and his head loll back.

 Maksim leaned forward, burying his face in Kit’s shoulder instead of his neck, his teeth grazing the collarbone but never touching the scent gland.

 "Fine," Maksim hissed, his breath hot against Kit’s skin. "If it is business, then I am a very satisfied customer. And I think... I think I want to buy another few hours of your time."

 He drove upward, bottoming out with a heavy, wet thud that made Kit let out a high, broken sound.

 "Keep scratching," Maksim growled, his pace beginning to pick up again as the Rut-fire flared back to life. "Show me how much this 'business transaction' is worth to you."

 Maksim’s hands, larger than Kits own and burning with the heat of his prolonged Rut, gripped Kit’s waist with a sudden, renewed intensity. The slow, rhythmic grinding shifted, the friction turning into a series of sharp, deep drives that made the headboard thud rhythmically against the wall.

 "You... you said you'd slow down!" Kit gasped, his voice cracking. He leaned his weight onto his hands, which were braced against Maksim’s shoulders, his body jolting with every impact. "You’re a... a liar, you big white dog!"

 Maksim’s lips pulled back into a dark, predatory smile as he looked up at Kit’s flushed, tear-streaked face. "But I am going slow, Persicheck," he rasped, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "Aren't I?"

 To punctuate the lie, Maksim drove upward with a sudden, forceful lunge that bottomed out, hitting Kit’s core with a wet, heavy thwack.

 Kit bit his lip so hard he nearly drew blood, his eyes rolling back as a wave of unwanted pleasure crashed over him. "No... you’re not! god, when are you... when are you cumming already?! Your freaking dick was supposed to go soft hours ago! I’m going to be a permanent part of this mattress!"

 Maksim didn't pull back. Instead, he surged forward, burying his face in the crook of Kit’s shoulder again. He sank his teeth into the sensitive skin, not a mating bite, but a bruising claim that made Kit shriek and arch his back.

  "I can’t help it that I’m already addicted to this tight, sweet hole. Fuck... I might not be able to control myself. You’ve ruined me for anyone else, little ghost."

 He pulled back just enough to look Kit in the eye, his red pupils blown wide with a mix of lust and something far more dangerous.

 "Shto esli my stanem lyubovnikami?" ("What if we become lovers, eh?") Maksim whispered, his Russian accent thick and heavy like velvet.

 Kit’s brain, already fried from twenty-nine rounds of Alpha pheromones and physical exhaustion, nearly short-circuited. "Lovers?!" he squawked, his voice hitting a high note.

 "We’re not... we aren't... this is business! You pay me, I leave, and I spend the next week sitting on a bag of frozen peas! Don't you dare start talking about 'lovers' while you’re still inside me!"

 "Sladkaya dyrka..." Maksim groaned, ignoring Kit’s protest as he began to thrust with a frantic, renewed energy. (Sweet hole...) "I don't think I can let you go back to that club. I think I’ll just keep you here. In my bed. Every time I go into Rut, I want only this."

 "You... you can't afford me!" Kit yelled, though his hips were betraying him, bucking down to meet Maksim’s every thrust. "I'm going to charge you... a billion rubles! Per minute!"

 "Deal," Maksim growled, his hands moving to Kit’s jaw, forcing him into a deep, messy kiss that tasted of salt and obsession.

 The air in the room was suffocating, thick with the scent of spent adrenaline and the heavy, metallic musk of a Rut that had finally reached its breaking point. Maksim was beyond logic, his movements primal and punishing.

 He gripped Kit’s hips so hard his knuckles were white, his fingers sinking into the bruised skin as he anchored the smaller man for the final assault.

 "Bozhe... ty takoy..." Maksim growled, his voice a jagged rasp of pure, unadulterated need. (God... you are so...)

 He drove forward, his massive dick hitting that internal "sweet spot" with a rhythmic, bone-deep violence. Each strike made Kit’s head snap back, his body jolting as if he were being electrocuted.

 The friction was a white-hot fire, and the sheer volume of the Alpha’s presence was drowning Kit’s senses.

 "Mak...sim..." Kit tried to gasp, his hands falling limp to the bed. His vision was swimming, the edges of the room turning into a hazy, dark blur.

 He couldn't form words; he couldn't even form a thought. His nervous system was screaming, caught between the peak of pleasure and the edge of total physical collapse.

 Maksim didn't slow down. He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming a frantic, wet blur of speed that hit that one deep, sensitive cord over and over again. He was relentless, a Sokolov claiming his prize with every ounce of his strength.

 "YA SEYCHAS KONCHU!" Maksim roared, his back corded with muscle as he reached the absolute peak. (I'M ABOUT TO CUM!) "VPYTYVAY VSYO, MOY MALEN’KIY PERSICHEK!" (SOAK IT ALL UP, MY LITTLE PEACH).

 With one final, earth-shattering lunge, Maksim’s body went rigid. A massive, burning flood of cum surged into Kit’s core, filling the reddened hole to the absolute limit.

 It was the final straw. The sensory overload, the physical exhaustion of thirty rounds, and the overwhelming heat of the Alpha’s final release triggered a total shutdown.

 Kit’s eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering before they closed completely. His body gave one last, weak shudder, and then he went totally limp in Maksim’s arms.

 The world faded to black before he could even register the heavy weight of the Omega collapsing on top of him, and he drifted into a deep, dark unconsciousness.

 The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Maksim’s ragged, slowing breath. With a long, low groan, he finally shifted, pulling himself out of Kit’s heat with a wet, heavy plop.

 He was soft now, the violent tension that had governed his body for hours finally draining away.

 Maksim sat on the edge of the decimated bed, his muscles aching in a way he hadn't felt in years. He reached for a sleek, obsidian device on the nightstand—a biometric tracker linked to his blood chemistry. He tapped the glass.

 RUT STATUS: COMPLETED

 HORMONE LEVELS: 100% STABILIZED

 CYCLE DURATION: 22 HOURS

 Maksim let out a dry, incredulous chuckle.

 For the first time, he didn't feel that restless, crawling Need.

 Usually, a Rut meant tearing through dozens of high-profile Omegas and Betas like they were disposable.

 No matter their status or "perfect" pheromones, they never lasted. They broke within minutes—fainting, seizing, or spiraling into shock—leaving him to wake up unsatisfied and on edge. This time was different.

 "Twenty Two hours," Maksim whispered, his voice a gravelly ruin. "And over thirty rounds

 Maksim checked the time on the wall clock. 6:12 AM. They had been at it for over thirteen hours.

 His gaze fell back to the bed.

 For his entire life, Maksim had been the pinnacle of the Sokolov line—the family that literally owned and operated the Compatibility System in Russia.

 He knew everything there was to know about secondary genders, pheromones, and matching.

 Yet, he was staring at a biological impossibility. This boy, Kit, had no scent. No matter how hard Maksim had fucked him, no matter how much his own Alpha pheromones had saturated the room, Kit remained a blank slate.

 There was no floral aroma, no musk—nothing. Just the faint, artificial smell of that cheap peach perfume and the salty tang of sweat.

 Maksim stood up, his muscles rippling as he walked across the room to the sofa. He reached into Kit’s discarded bag and pulled out a worn leather wallet. He slid out the ID.

 "Kit Holloway," Maksim read the name aloud, his voice like gravel.

 He picked up his phone, dialing his lead assistant. The line picked up on the first ring.

 "Sir? Is the Rut—"

 "It’s over," Maksim interrupted, his eyes fixed on Kit’s unconscious face. "I want a full background check on a performer named Kit Holloway. He works at The Velvet Fantasy. I want medical records, family history, and school transcripts. Everything. Now."

 "Right away, sir. I'll have the file ready by the time you've dressed."

 Maksim ended the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

 He walked back to the bed, looking down at the "Null" who had just survived thirty rounds with a Sokolov.

 He had never seen an Omega who couldn't be scented, let alone one who could handle a Rut of this magnitude. To Maksim, it wasn't a defect—it was a miracle. A puzzle he intended to solve.

 He reached down, sliding one massive arm under Kit’s knees and the other behind his back, hoisting the limp boy into a bridal carry. Kit felt weightless, like a bird that had flown until its wings gave out. His head fell against Maksim’s chest, his bruised body looking stark against the Alpha’s pale, skin.

 "You're a miracle, Persicheck," Maksim murmured, his red eyes softening as he walked toward the master bathroom. "But you're also a fool if you think you're walking out of here with just a paycheck."

 He kicked the bathroom door open, the mirrors still clouded from the earlier steam. He looked at their reflection—the predatory untouchable Alpha with this scentless, broken performer.

 "I'm never letting you go," Maksim vowed, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. "I’ll kill the first Alpha who even tries to breathe your scent... if they can even find it. You’re mine now."

 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

 Three Days Later

 The silence in the penthouse was thick, broken only by the faint, expensive hum of the air filtration system.

 When Kit’s eyes finally fluttered open, the world was a dizzying blur of cream-colored ceilings and harsh, golden morning light.

 He stayed still for a long moment, his vision clearing bit by bit. His brain felt heavy, like it had been submerged in molasses. He tried to remember how he got here, but as he shifted his weight to sit up, a white-hot spike of agony shot through his core.

 His lower back didn't just ache—it stung with a ferocity that made his breath hitch. It felt as if someone had spent the last several hours systematically breaking his spine with a massive metal brick. The muscles in his thighs were locked tight, and his entire lower half felt heavy, bruised, and completely disconnected from the rest of his body.

 With a choked gasp, Kit collapsed back onto the silk pillows.

 That was when the "shock" hit. His brain gave a sharp, electric jolt, short-circuiting as the memories came screaming back in high-definition, Anton’s "generous" offer: $1000 promise. The Penthouse: The smell of Ozone and the red-eyed Alpha. The thirty-plus rounds of relentless, Rut-driven fucking that had pushed his "defective" body to the absolute breaking point.

 "Three days..." he croaked, catching the date on the bedside clock. "I’ve been out for three days?"

 His eyes darted to the nightstand. There, sitting next to a glass of water, was a piece of heavy, ivory cardstock. His fingers trembled as he leaned over to snag it, his back screaming in protest at the slight movement.

 The handwriting was sharp and arrogant. He didn't need a signature to know who wrote it.

 I am out for a business meeting. When I return, we can settle everything. There are clothes laid out for you in the dressing room. If you need anything—food, medicine, or otherwise—my staff at the hotel is at your disposal. Stay put.

 — M. Sokolov

 Kit’s face went from pale to a scorched, indignant red. He crumpled the paper in his fist, his knuckles turning white.

 "Stay put? 'Settle everything'?" Kit hissed, his voice a jagged ruin. He threw the crumpled note toward the floor with as much strength as his shaky arms could muster. "You fucking white dishwasher... you have the nerve to leave me a 'Stay put' command after trying to turn me into a permanent part of the furniture?"

 He glared at the double doors of the master suite. The thought of waiting around for the man who had nearly dismantled him made his skin crawl.

 "If you find me here when you get back, I curse all my ancestors," Kit snarled into the empty room. "Thirty rounds... thirty rounds and he thinks I'm going to wait for a 'business meeting'?"

 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯