Inside the top-floor executive CEO office, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the neon-drenched chaos of the Velvet Fantasy. It was quiet, smelling of expensive leather and the lingering scent of Ozone..

Maksim Sokolov sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the blue light from his laptop illuminating the hard, sculpted planes of his face. 

He had just finished reviewing several high-stakes files, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about a scentless Omega with a mouth like a sailor and eyes that burned with pure, unadulterated loathing.

He leaned back, the leather creaking under his weight. He could still hear Kit’s voice—the way he’d called him a "freezing-cold fridge" and told him he disgusted him. Most Alphas of Maksim’s status would be livid. Maksim was simply... fascinated.

He pulled up the digital folder his assistant had compiled. It was a fragmented, bleak history That had everything about kit, his age his background, everything an Alpha like Maksim could want to know.

Origin: Born to British parents who died in a house fire when he was a child.

History: Shuffled through various foster homes; no stable records.

Current Status: Infertile, scentless, "And deemed defective by the very Compability System."

Occupation: Adult dancer at a mid-tier club.

To the Sokolov Family, Kit was a walking disaster—a social pariah who checked every box of what an Alpha should avoid. He was "defective" by every metric the Compatibility System measured. 

And yet, the data couldn't explain the reality.

Usually, during Maksim’s ruts, he had to rotate through ten or more Omegas, changing them every few minutes because they couldn't handle the atmospheric pressure of his pheromones. They would seize or pass out. 

But Kit—scentless, "ldefective Kit—had endured thirty rounds of an Alpha’s peak rut and walked out on his own two feet.

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

"Sir, Mr. Dmitry Volkov is approaching your office," his assistant’s voice filtered through.

"Let him in," Maksim said, his voice a low, indifferent rumble.

The heavy double doors swung open, revealing a man who moved with the easy confidence of someone who had nothing to prove. Dmitry Volkov was broad-shouldered and imposing, dressed in a sharp, tailored white suit—a stark contrast to Maksim’s usual dark turtlenecks and simple suit shirts.

Dmitry didn't wait for an invitation. He crossed the room and sank into the guest chair, casually swinging his legs up onto the polished mahogany desk.

Maksim let out a short, weary sigh. "How many times have I told you not to put your feet on my desk, Dmitry?"

"And how many times have I told you that this wood is the only thing in this city that actually supports my calves?" Dmitry replied with a wide, wolfish grin. He settled in, his eyes sharp and observant. "So, tell me. How’s it going with your little scentless miracle? Did he jump at the chance to be the 'Sokolov consort' after you gave him a full thirty rounds of... encouragement? Or was my bet correct that he'd turn you down?"

Maksim leaned back, his crystal eyes unreadable. "He turned me down. Quite aggressively, in fact. He said he'd rather be with a sewer rat."

Dmitry threw his head back and let out a booming laugh. "A sewer rat! God, I like him already! I told you, Maksim. You can’t treat a wild cat like a corporate merger. You walked in there acting like a machine, and you’re surprised he didn’t want to be the spare part?"

Dmitry lowered his legs, the soles of his boots thudding against the carpet as his expression shifted. 

There was still a lingering spark of mischief in his eyes, but his voice carried a new weight of genuine curiosity.

"But seriously," Dmitry started, a short bark of a laugh escaping him. "The fact that he stood there, took in that arctic blast you call a personality, and dubbed you a 'refrigerator'... why have I never thought of that? It’s perfect. You’re sleek, you’re expensive, and you keep everything inside at sub-zero temperatures. It fits you better than that tailored shirt, Maksim."

Maksim offered a dry, mocking half-smile, tapping a rhythmic beat against his desk. "I only gave him the privilege of calling me that because... well, it was a unique circumstance." 

He trailed off, refusing to say the word "refrigerator" himself. It sounded far too ridiculous coming from the mouth of the man who controlled Russia’s infrastructure.

"Oh, so now it’s a privilege to insult the Sokolov heir?" Dmitry teased, leaning back. "You’ve got it bad, my friend. You’re practically wagging your tail for a scentless brat who treats you like a kitchen appliance."

Maksim’s eyes narrowed slightly, though the amusement remained. "Don’t you have another compatible Omega to deal with? Someone who wants to lick your shoes or write poems about your 'radiant Alpha essence'?"

He was poking at Dmitry’s reality—the man was a magnet for high-compatibility matches. It wasn't uncommon for Dmitry to have two or three Omegas trailing him in a single day, all desperate for a crumb of his attention.

Dmitry groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m exhausted. Do you know one of them actually broke into my house last night? Claimed they loved me, then pulled out a knife and started lunging at me. Said if they couldn't have me, nobody could. If I didn't keep a gun in my nightstand, I’d be a decorative rug by now."

Maksim let out a short, dark chuckle. "And? Did you kill him?"

"No, I did something a bit more surgical," Dmitry said, a wolfish glint in his eyes. "Shot him in the hand and the leg. I think he was number ten this month... or maybe twenty? The police hauled him away. It was a mess."

"So," Maksim said, leaning forward. "Did you find another one to use? Or are you still playing your usual game of letting them pleasure you and offering nothing but a cold shoulder in return?"

Maksim knew Dmitry’s reputation well. Dmitry enjoyed the adoration, the service, and the physical thrill, but he almost never reciprocated. He’d let an Omega work for hours only to dismiss them with a kiss on the forehead and a polite 'get out.'

Dmitry’s face softened, a strange, thoughtful look crossing his features. "Actually, speaking of that... I met a new one. A few days ago, I was at your hotel—the SK. Some useless, high-class Omega with no brains was making a scene in the lobby. Claimed some 'peasant' came out of your room wearing your clothes and your boots. I didn't pay much attention; I just wanted to get my business done. But that high-class brat couldn't even get me interested."

"Maybe the problem was you," Maksim countered.

"See who’s talking! Mr. Thirty-Rounds," Dmitry shot back. He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "Anyway, I dismissed the brat and took a drive. I ended up at this place... a bit of a dive, but lively. I I think the place was called... Velvet Fantasy. I told the owner I wanted their best. Had to wait forever because their 'star' was on a day off since it was Sunday. Long story short, the guy they finally gave me... he did a job I won't soon forget. Seeing his face while he suckee off? Maksim, I actually wanted to fuck him right there."

Maksim’s eyebrows shot up. He let out a genuine laugh, a rare sound in this office. "Did you just say you wanted to have sex? You? The man who has spent his entire life avoiding the 'entanglement' of full intercourse because no one is worth the effort?"

Dmitry didn't laugh back. He just stared at the ceiling, looking uncharacteristically dazed.

 "There was something about him. Sharp-tongued, pretty, looked like he’d seen a lot of shit but still carried himself like a king. He didn't just feel like another Omega. He felt... like a challenge I could definitely take up."

Maksim watched his friend for a moment, the silence in the office stretching out. It was rare to see Dmitry—the man who treated intimacy like a transaction he was too rich to fully engage in—look so genuinely caught off balance.

"Let’s go have a drink later tonight," Maksim said, snapping his laptop shut with a definitive thud. "Once I’m finished with these mergers. It sounds like you need to clear your head before you start stalking a strip club."

Dmitry flashed a wide, arrogant grin as he pushed himself out of the chair, his movements fluid and predatory. He smoothed the front of his pristine white suit, the light catching the expensive fabric.

"I knew you Always miss me staying in this cold office of yours," Dmitry teased, heading toward the heavy double doors. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder with a wink. "I’ll come pick you up at eight, sweetheart."

A vein throbbed slightly in Maksim’s temple—the only sign of his genuine, brotherly exasperation. "Don’t call me that," he snapped, his voice dropping into a warning growl that would have sent a lesser Alpha running for the elevators.

Dmitry just chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets, completely unfazed by the threat.

 "Fine, fine. If you don't like 'sweetheart,' then I'll just start calling you 'Refrigerator' like your little scentless brat does. I think I prefer it, actually. It has a certain... chill to it."

He didn't wait for a response, disappearing into the hallway with a lingering, mischievous laugh that echoed through the executive floor.

Maksim stared at the closed doors for a long beat, the tension in his shoulders finally bleeding away. He let out a slow, heavy sigh—the kind of sigh reserved only for a best friend who was equal parts brilliant and insufferable. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained sharp.

"Idiot," Maksim muttered to the empty room.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

10PM..

The 10:00 PM air was biting, the hard snow of December swirling in lazy, crystalline flakes that vanished against the dark pavement. 

Maksim stepped out of the SK Headquarters of the Compability System, the collar of his heavy gray coat turned up against the chill. He walked down the wide stone steps, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his breath blooming in white clouds before him.

Waiting at the curb was a massive, obsidian-black Mercedes G-Wagon—a beast of a vehicle that screamed power and luxury, exactly the kind of armored tank Dmitry preferred over Maksim’s usual low-slung, aggressive sports cars.

Maksim pulled open the heavy passenger door and slid inside. The interior was warm, smelling of expensive leather and Dmitry’s distinct Birch Tar and Clove Pheromones.

"Took you long enough," Dmitry drawled, leaning back in the driver’s seat with a lazy, arrogant smirk. "I’ve been sitting here for two hours, Mr CEO. My legs were starting to cramp."

"Just drive," Maksim replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he stared straight ahead.

Dmitry let out a short, mocking chuckle as he shifted the car into gear. "Whatever you say, Mr. Kitchen Appliance. So, what’s the plan? The usual spot, or do you want to go for your little scentless brat?"

"The usual," Maksim said.

........

They drove through the quiet, snow-dusted streets of Moscow for a few minutes before Dmitry broke the silence again. "You know, you never actually told me which club your 'problem' works at. Where is this place?"

"The same club you visited," Maksim answered coolly. "The one you were so eager to... 'take up the challenge'."

Dmitry’s eyes shot wide, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he glanced sharply at Maksim. "What? And you didn't think to mention that? God, Maksim, you should have said something. What if the one I wanted to get down with was your little scentless thing?"

Maksim didn’t turn his head, but his voice dropped into a register that was dangerously sharp.

 "Know your limits, Dmitry."

Dmitry felt the sudden shift in the air—the weight of Maksim's authority pressing against the interior of the car. He cleared his throat, raising a hand in a half-apologetic gesture. "Right. It was just a joke Sorry. I just meant—"

"Stop the car," Maksim interrupted.

"What? Why? We’re nowhere near the club—"

"I said stop."

Dmitry slammed on the brakes, the heavy G-Wagon skidding slightly on the fresh snow before coming to a halt. 

Maksim was already out the door before the engine had even settled. He stood on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on a dimly lit alleyway just a few yards ahead.

Dmitry scrambled out after him, jogging to catch up. "Maksim, what the hell are you—"

He stopped dead.

Under the flickering glow of a yellow streetlamp, three figures were there. 

One person was leaning casually against the wall, a hoodie pulled over their head and a lollipop stick poking out from between their lips. On the ground, a man was curled in a ball, groaning in pain, while a second figure sat astride him, raining down a brutal, methodical series of punches.

Maksim approached the scene, his eyes locking onto the person on top. His mind hadn't been playing tricks on him; the height, the movement, the raw, jagged energy—it was him.

The person by the wall froze, slowly taking the lollipop out of their mouth as they looked up at the two towering Alphas approaching. 

At the same time, the person on the ground stopped swinging, their knuckles barked and bloody, their eyes flashing with a familiar, defiant fire.

Dmitry and the person with the lollipop stared at each other in absolute, wide-eyed shock.

"YOU!!" they both barked at the exact same second.