"Come on, Peaches," he whispered to the empty, opulent room. "You’re Kit Holloway. You’ve survived three-hour sets in five-inch heels with a fever; you aren't staying here just because some Alpha fucked your spine into a different zip code. He might be a Sokolov, but you're a... well, you're a Holloway. Not that the name has a cent to it, but I’m nobody’s damsel in distress."

He took one step, and his lower back gave a sickening twinge that nearly sent him to the floor. He stumbled, clutching a mahogany dresser for dear life, but he didn't stop. He dragged his battered body toward the massive double doors of the walk-in closet.

Each step was a battle against his own biology. He reached the heavy doors and shoved them open.

Kit’s jaw dropped. It wasn't a closet; it was a cathedral of consumerism. "God... is this a second apartment?"

The room was vast, lined with rows of charcoal, navy, and obsidian suits. Kit noticed a pattern: no ties. Just endless rows of high-end turtlenecks. He remembered the charcoal suit Maksim had been wearing when this nightmare started—white turtleneck, sharp lines, looking like a god of industry.

He moved deeper, his bare feet silent on the heated marble floor. In the center sat a massive marble island. Resting on top were several shopping bags. Even the plastic of the bags felt thicker and more expensive than anything Kit had ever owned.

At the far end of the closet, a narrow, steel-reinforced door sat slightly ajar. Curiosity—the thing that usually got Kit into trouble—tugged at him. He gripped the handle and pulled.

His eyes widened. The room was a cold, windowless armory. Rows of handguns, tactical rifles, and sleek, matte-black equipment lined the walls. It was a stark reminder of Anton’s warning: These people aren’t just rich. They’re dangerous.

Kit backed out quickly, his heart hammering. "Right. Dangerous. Note taken."

He turned back to the shopping bags on the island. He tore into the first one. Inside were thick, cashmere turtlenecks, heavy sweatpants by, and a pair of white, fluffy winter boots designed for the brutal Moscow snow.

In a smaller, separate bag, he found a collection of silk-blend underwear. Tucked inside was another note.

I don't know where your old clothes went. Wear these. I know your size, by the way.

See you when I get back. And remember, Persicheck—don't go anywhere. Wait for me. The staff is at your disposal.

"Who the fuck told you I’d wait, you big white-haired dog?" Kit hissed, tossing the note aside. "And you 'don't know' where my clothes are? Sure. You probably had them incinerated so I couldn't leave."

As he started to pull the clothes on, his hand brushed against his own skin. He froze. He felt... clean. Despite the bite marks on his neck and the bruises on his hips, there was no stickiness. No mess.

He slid a hand down toward his ass, his face turning a violent shade of pink as he realized Maksim had been the one to "pop his cherry"—and then Maksim had apparently been the one to wash him, dry him, and tuck him in like a prize doll while he was unconscious.

"Fuck," Kit whispered, his face burning. "Stupid Alpha. Professional... my ass."

He forced himself into the clothes. The cashmere turtleneck was soft enough to be a crime, and the thick sweatpants hid the way his legs were still trembling.

He slid his feet into the fluffy winter boots and grabbed a heavy, fur-lined coat from the bag. He smelled like "Endless Luxury" now, a scent that mocked his empty bank account.

Kit gritted his teeth, his breath hitching in a sharp, pained hiss as he forced his jelly-like legs to lock.

He stepped out of the closet, the heavy scent of cashmere and "Endless Luxury" clinging to him like a second skin. 

He moved with a ginger, wide-legged gait, his body protesting every inch of progress. His eyes scanned the bedroom, landing finally on a plush armchair situated by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

There, looking wildly out of place against the expensive upholstery, was his own battered bag.

He practically lunged for it, his hands shaking as he tore through the zipper. 

To his genuine shock, everything was there. His wallet, his keys, and most importantly—his phone. He had fully expected the "white-haired dog" to have confiscated it, playing out some twisted "Alpha-captor" trope to keep him from calling for leaving.

"At least he's not a complete cliché," Kit muttered, shoving the phone into the deep pocket of his new sweatpants. 

The screen lit up with a barrage of missed calls and messages, but he didn't have time to check them. He needed to be gone before the owner of this gilded cage returned from his "business meeting."

He swung the bag over his shoulder, the weight of it making his lower back scream in fresh agony. Steeling himself, he pushed through the bedroom doors and entered the main living area.

If the bedroom was a sanctuary, the living room was a monument. It felt less like a home and more like the lobby of a six-star hotel that only accepted blood diamonds as currency. The ceilings were impossibly high, and the dining room stretched out like a banquet hall for ghosts. Every surface was marble, glass, or polished steel.

Kit didn't stop to admire the view of the snow-covered Moscow skyline. He tracked his progress toward the main entrance, his boots muffled by the thick, hand-woven rugs. He felt small in this space—intentionally so. 

This was a place designed to remind you exactly how much power the surname SOKOLOV held.

He reached the heavy, reinforced main door.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowned out the hum of the penthouse. He didn't know if it was locked from the outside or if there were guards waiting just beyond the wood.

"Please don't be locked," he breathed, his hand trembling as he gripped the sleek, silver handle.

He turned it. With a heavy, expensive click, the mechanism disengaged. Kit pulled the door open just a crack, holding his breath as he peered out into the hallway.

The hallway of the SK Hotel was less of a corridor and more of a golden gauntlet, a shark tank of extreme wealth where the air itself seemed to cost more than Kit’s monthly rent. 

Broad-shouldered Alphas in tailored charcoal suits stood like stone pillars, their eyes tracking movement with predatory precision, while classy, expensive-looking Omegas drifted through the space like perfumed ghosts. 

But Kit didn't give a single, solitary fuck. He didn't feel guilty for leaving, and he certainly didn't feel like he was "running away" like some terrified character in a tragic novel. 

He was just getting the hell out of dodge before the Whit Dog in the penthouse came back amd found he was gone.

He started walking toward the elevators, each step a jagged battle against a spine that felt like it had been through a meat grinder. 

His foul-mouthed nature was peaking through his exhausted, post-rut haze, and he was ready to bite the head off anyone who so much as blinked at him. Just as he was about to reach the gold-leafed elevator bank, a figure stepped directly into his path, forcing Kit to a jarring, painful halt.

It was an Omega, shorter than Kit but draped in feminine silks and heavy jewelry that screamed luxury or high class. He wore oversized designer glasses—the kind that weren't for sight, but for projecting a status that said 'I am untouchable.' 

Kit would have just walked past the Omega but his path was blocked, The Omega with a practiced grace, looking him up and down with a slow, insulting drawl that made Kit’s skin crawl not with fear or anxiety but his lips getting ready to spew foul curse words.

"Well, well," the Omega began, his voice dripping with enough condescension to drown in.

 "You just came out of Maksim Sokolov’s private penthouse. Tell me, are you his new toy? You certainly look the part of a little street-cat he’d find amusing for a night. An Omega he could fuck for a few hours until he got bored and moved on to something... refined."

The man paused, one hand resting on his opposite arm while the other twirled a lock of perfectly styled hair. He leaned in closer, his nose wrinkling behind those expensive lenses as he took a deep, invasive sniff of the air around Kit’s neck. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

"Wait... what is this?" the Omega asked, his voice sharpening. "Why can't I smell your pheromones, eh? Did he work you so hard you went numb, or are you just... empty? And these clothes," he reached out a manicured hand to touch the sleeve of Kit's cashmere turtleneck, "they look quite expensive. Far too expensive for a common little thing like you. Did you steal them while he was sleeping?"

Kit didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He leaned in until they were barely inches apart, his eyes flashing with a cold, jagged light that usually made men twice this guy's size back down.

"First of all, sweetheart," Kit rasped, his voice a jagged ruin from three days of screaming and heat, "take your hand off the cashmere before I decide to break your fingers. And maybe I don't have a scent because your nose is as fake as those tits you're trying do hard pushing out. Or maybe I just don't feel like sharing my 'scent' with someone who looks like they were dressed by a blind jeweler with a grudge."

The Omega gasped, his face going pale with shock, but Kit wasn't finished. He stepped forward, forcing the smaller man to stumble back a pace.

"As for being a toy? If you’re so curious about what .r White Dog does behind closed doors, why don't you go knock? I’m sure he’s got plenty of room in that secret armory of his for one more loudmouthed bitch to use as target practice. He’s in a real 'generous' mood lately—thirty-plus rounds kind of generous. Think you can handle that, or would you snap like a twig after five?"

The stranger’s jaw hit the floor, his hand frozen in his hair. He looked at Kit’s fluffy boots, then at the expensive coat, then back at Kit’s defiant, bruised face. "You... you're insane," he whispered.

"No, I'm just leaving," Kit snapped, turning his back on the man and slamming his palm against the elevator button. "And if you value that pretty little face of yours, you'll stay out of my way. All and all, it's been a really long three days, and my patience is currently thinner than your eyeliner."

The elevator doors chimed, sliding open to reveal a mirrored, gold-trimmed interior that reflected Kit’s pale face and messy hair. 

He stepped inside, the plush carpet yielding under his fluffy boots, and turned around just as the stunned Omega finally found his voice.

The man’s face was white with fury, his eyes glaring at Kit with enough heat to melt the Moscow snow outside. "You... you little—!"

Before he could finish his insult, a tall, broad-shouldered Alpha in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit approached from the side corridor. 

He moved with a lazy, dangerous sort of grace that screamed high-ranking security or something much worse. The Omega immediately spun around, his silk clothes fluttering as he pointed a trembling, manicured finger at Kit inside the elevator.

"Dmitry! Did you hear what he said to me?" the Omega shrilled, pained and pouting as he grabbed the Alpha’s arm. "He insulted me! He called my—he said my jewelry was cheap and badmouthing my chest! He’s coming out of Maksim’s room dressed like that and he has the nerve to talk to me like that? Do something!"

The Alpha, Dmitry, didn't even flinch. He looked down at the hand gripping his expensive sleeve and then looked up, his gaze meeting Kit’s. 

Kit just leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator, his arms crossed over his chest, looking completely unbothered and deeply bored. He didn't even blink; he just stared back with a "get on with it" expression that would have made a lesser man nervous.

Dmitry let out a bored huff and reached down, peeling the Omega’s hand off his arm with clinical indifference. "So?" he asked, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. "What do you want me to do about it? Fight him for you?"

"But Dmitry—!" the Omega whined, his lower lip trembling in a practiced, pathetic pout.

"Just get in the freaking room so we can get this over with," Dmitry snapped, gesturing toward the suite across the hall. "Don't ruin your pretty makeup with those crocodile tears, eh? It’s too expensive to waste on a hallway spat."

The Omega’s shoulders slumped, his expression shifting from rage to a wounded, sad pout as he realized he wasn't getting his way. 

He looked like a kicked puppy in designer silk. Dmitry sighed, his tone softening just a fraction—the kind of tone someone uses to coax a stubborn horse. "If you do a good job in there, I’ll give you something good later, alright? Now move."

That seemed to work. The Omega sniffled, adjusting his glasses, and started walking toward the room with a renewed, albeit shaky, sense of purpose. 

Before the heavy elevator doors could hiss shut, Dmitry took one last long, calculating peak at Kit. He took in the oversized coat, the messy hair, and the sharp, defiant tilt of Kit's chin.

Kit didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

He just watched the gap between the doors get smaller and smaller until the Alpha’s curious face disappeared.

Click. 

The elevator began its smooth, silent descent. Kit finally let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his knees trembling as the adrenaline started to fade. "Dmitry, huh?" he muttered to his reflection. "At least some of the Alphas in this building have a sense of humor. Now, let’s see if I can make it to the street before the Mr White Dog realizes his I've lomg gone."

After a few minutes in the golden Elevator Kit was now so close to the gold-plated revolving doors he could practically taste the biting Moscow air. 

He could see the snow swirling outside, promising a cold but free walk away from the gilded cage of the SK Hotel. 

But just as he reached the center of the vast, silent lobby, a voice like a sharpened blade cut through the air. "You! Stop right there!"

Kit froze, his spine screaming in protest as he turned. 

Standing behind the mahogany desk was the same woman from three days ago—the one with the hair pulled back so tight it looked like a surgical procedure. 

She was flanked by two massive Alpha security guards, their faces as expressionless as the marble floor. 

She marched toward him, her eyes traveling from his expensive, fluffy winter boots up to the cashmere turtleneck that definitely hadn't been on his back when he arrived in his slush-covered sneakers. 

She didn't see a guest; she saw a thief. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she looked at the guards and barked, "Search him. Now."

"What the fuck is happening? Hey! Don't you fucking touch me!" Kit snarled, stepping back as the two Alphas closed in on him like a pair of hungry wolves.