Inside the cabin of the car, the air was thick with the scent of birch tar and cloves, clashing with the metallic tang of blood still drying on Kit’s knuckles.

Kit had spent the first hour screaming until his throat went raw, pounding against the reinforced glass of the passenger door. 

Now, two hours into the drive, he sat in a simmering, exhausted silence. 

His arms were tightly folded over his chest, his eyes fixed glare-bright on the dark road ahead. 

He was pouting, though he’d rather die than admit it, his slender frame vibrating with a mix of cold and unspent fury.

Finally, the forest opened up to a massive perimeter of high-tensile steel and stone.

Uniformed guards in tactical gear stood at the entrance, their silhouettes sharp against the snow. 

They were used to seeing Maksim Sokolov arrive in his armored Rolls-Royce, not a now mud-splattered G-Wagon belonging to the Volkov family. Unless if it was Dmitry Visiting of course.

One guard, an Alpha with a steady hand, stepped forward and tapped on the tinted driver-side window.

Maksim didn't bother rolling it down. 

He didn't even look at the man. He simply stared forward, his voice a low, vibrating hum that bypassed the glass.

"Open the gate."

The guard felt a primal chill spike down his spine—a physical reaction to the sheer authority in Maksim’s tone. 

He didn't ask for ID. He didn't ask who was in the passenger seat. 

He scrambled back, signaling his team. 

The massive iron gates groaned open automatically, and Maksim floored it, the tires spitting slush as they tore up the private drive toward the sprawling, modern fortress of the Sokolov estate.

Maksim bypassed the main entrance, spiraling down into the underground garage. 

As the lights flickered on, they revealed a cathedral of chrome and carbon fiber—an endless collection of high-performance exotics and limited-edition hypercars. 

Lamborghinis, Paganis, and customized Ferraris sat like silent, expensive predators in the dark.

Maksim killed the engine. 

The silence that followed was deafening.

He stepped out, his gray coat fluttering as he rounded the hood. He opened the passenger door, looking down at the disheveled Omega who was still trying to look intimidating while huddled in a baggy, blood-stained hoodie.

"Get out," Maksim said.

Kit didn't move. 

He dug his shoes into the floor mats, tightening his grip on his own arms. "If I get out of this car and follow you then I’m a complete idiot. I'm staying right here. Sleep on it, for all I care."

Maksim’s eyes didn't flicker. "Fine."

Before Kit could register the shift, Maksim leaned into the small space of the car. 

In one fluid, terrifyingly effortless motion, he slid one arm under Kit’s knees and the other behind his back. He hoisted him out in a clean bridal carry, kicking the door shut with his heel.

"Hey! Put me down! You big, oversized refrigerator!" Kit shrieked, his legs kicking wildly in the air. "I'll kill you! I’ll fucking bite your ears off!"

The guards stationed around the garage and the lower halls kept their eyes strictly forward, though the sound of a scentless boy screaming insults at their terrifying boss echoed off the concrete walls like a riot.

"Znayesh... Dlya cheloveka, kotoryy desyat' mil' nazad zabival Al'fu do smerti, ty udivitel'no legkaya." Maksim said, switching to a smooth, dark Russian as he began to walk toward the elevator. (For someone who was beating an Alpha half to death a few hours ago, you’re remarkably light.)

He smirked, and for a split second, he loosened his grip, letting Kit’s weight dip as if he were about to drop him onto the hard stone floor.

"Speak English you Refr—! Uhh—! Wait! No!" Kit gasped, his bravado vanishing in a heartbeat.

He instinctively lunged upward, his arms wrapping around Maksim’s neck and his fingers clutching desperately at the expensive wool of the gray coat. 

He buried his face into the crook of Maksim’s shoulder, trembling as he realized just how high up he was.

Maksim didn't drop him. 

Instead, he tightened his hold, his stride steady and predatory as the elevator doors hissed open. He could feel the heat radiating from Kit’s face through his coat—a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

The elevator ascended in a heavy, pressurized silence, the only sound the faint hum of the machinery. 

Maksim didn't look down, but he could feel Kit’s heart hammering like a trapped bird against his chest.

When the doors hissed open, they were greeted by the expansive, minimalist opulence of the main foyer. 

Two guards stationed at the entrance immediately snapped to attention, bowing their heads in unison. 

Maksim didn't acknowledge them; he simply strode past, his boots clicking rhythmically on the polished marble as he carried Kit deeper into the fortress.

"You can put me down now," Kit mumbled into Maksim's shoulder, his voice muffled but still laced with spite. "The floor isn't going to bite me."

Maksim ignored him, walking into the main living area.

Kit’s eyes widened despite himself. 

The room was vast—soaring ceilings, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the snow-covered forest, and a fireplace that looked large enough to roast a bear. 

It felt less like a home and more like a high-end modern Castle of the 21st Century. To Kit, this single room looked larger than his entire apartment building back in the slums.

Maksim finally lowered him, placing him onto a massive, deep-seated sectional. 

To Kit, it didn't feel like a sofa; it felt like being dropped onto a cloud of white fur and silk. It was so soft he almost felt himself sinking into it.

"Stay there," Maksim commanded, his voice a low rumble. "I'll be back."

Kit watched him disappear up the grand staircase. 

For a moment, he considered running for the door, but the sheer comfort of the sofa—and the memory of the armed guards outside—made him stay put. 

He experimentally poked the cushion, his fingers vanishing into the plush fabric.

A few minutes later, Maksim returned. 

Gone was the imposing gray coat and the sharp suit. He was dressed in a simple, high-quality black t-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders and dark sweatpants. 

Seeing the "Refrigerator" in house slippers was so jarring that Kit almost laughed, but the sight of the heavy first-aid kit in Maksim’s hand killed the joke.

Maksim approached, sitting on the edge of the sofa near Kit’s feet.

"Take off your shoes," Maksim said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Kit immediately bristled, crossing his arms and snapping his head to the side to look at the fireplace. "No. I'm not staying long enough to get comfortable."

Maksim didn't sigh; he didn't have the patience for it. He simply reached out, grabbed Kit’s ankles, and pulled his legs onto his own lap.

"Hey! I didn't tell you to do that! Let go, you freak!" Kit shouted, his face flushing a deep crimson as he tried to scramble backward.

Maksim’s grip was like velvet-covered steel. He began unlacing Kit’s boots with methodical precision. 

Realizing he had no choice, Kit let out a frustrated groan and kicked his boots off himself. 

"Fine! There! Happy?"

Maksim set the boots aside and handed him a pair of thick, soft house slippers. 

Then, he turned his attention to the first-aid kit. He reached out and caught Kit’s hand—the one with the barked, bloody knuckles.

Kit tried to yank it back. "I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches. I’ve had worse from falling off a stage."

Maksim didn't let go. 

He tilted Kit’s hand toward the light, his thumb tracing the edge of a bruise. The touch was unexpectedly gentle, sending a confusing jolt through Kit’s system. 

Kit looked away, his face turning a brilliant shade of pink that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Your hands are a mess," Maksim said, his voice quiet but intense. 

He began cleaning the cuts with an antiseptic wipe. "Why were you on top of that Alpha? Why were you trying to beat him to death in a dark alley?"

Kit’s jaw tightened. The defiance returned to his eyes, sharp and jagged. "Because he touched me like he owned me. Because he thought that just because I dance for money, I’m a service he can buy on the street. He’s lucky you showed up when you did, or I would’ve taken his teeth home as a souvenir."

He looked at Maksim, his eyes searching the Alpha's icy gaze. "Why do you care? Isn't that what you think of me, too? Just a scentless 'defective' Dancer you can use?"

Maksim continued his work with clinical precision, his large, warm hands holding Kit’s smaller, battered ones with a firmness that made escape impossible. 

He moved on from the antiseptic to a soothing salve, his eyes focused entirely on the task as if he were repairing a priceless piece of art rather than a "defective" dancer's knuckles.

"And also!" Kit snapped, his voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings. "Why the hell am I here? You can’t just keep me in this... this high and luxurious palace! I don't even have my phone to call Jihoon. He’s probably out there in the snow, wondering if I’ve been chopped into pieces and stored in your literal refrigerator!"

Maksim didn't look up. 

He squeezed a small amount of ointment onto a gauze pad.

"I’m serious, Sokolov!" Kit leaned forward, his face inches from Maksim’s shoulder. "The moment I get out of here, I’m going straight to the police. I’ll tell them the Great Maksim Sokolov is a kidnapper. I’ll ruin your reputation. I'll make sure every news outlet in Moscow knows you snatch people off the street like a common thug!"

He kept going, a whirlwind of threats and insults, but the more he talked, the more the silence from the man in front of him felt heavy. 

It wasn't the silence of someone who wasn't listening; it was the silence of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Are you even listening to me?" Kit demanded, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to yank his hand away again. "You’re freak cold, arrogant fridge are you ig—"

"I was jealous."

The words were quiet, but they cut through Kit’s rant like a blade through silk. 

Kit froze, his mouth still slightly open as he processed the sentence.

"What?" Kit whispered.

Maksim finally looked up. 

His crystalline eyes were dark, swirling with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin. He didn't let go of Kit's hand; instead, he squeezed it gently, pulling Kit just a fraction closer.

"I was jealous seeing you on top of that Alpha," Maksim admitted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. 

He leaned in, his gaze dropping to Kit’s neck. "Even now, I’m livid because you still smell like him. His cheap pheromones are all over your clothes, clinging to your skin because you were so intent on destroying him."

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. The pink in his cheeks deepened into a feverish red. "I—I was fighting him, you idiot! It wasn't—"

"I know what it was," Maksim interrupted, his thumb tracing the pulse point in Kit’s wrist. "But it doesn't change the reality. It’s funny... I told myself I only wanted you because you were the only one who could survive my ruts without having to change an Omega countless times. The only one who didn't break under the pressure of my pheromones. I tried to tell myself it was a biological necessity."

Maksim let out a short, self-deprecating breath that ghosted over Kit’s skin.

"But it’s more than that. A few days ago, I tried to have sex with another Omega just like I Always do. And I couldn't even get hard. Do you know why? Because every time I looked down at that Omega all I could see was your face. Your hateful, beautiful eyes looking at me with pure disgust."

Kit gasped, his breath hitching in his chest. 

The arrogance he usually used as a shield was crumbling under the weight of Maksim’s honesty.

"I don't want you to be with any other Alpha but me, Kit," Maksim continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Not for a dance, not for a fight, and certainly not for anything else. I’ve spent my entire life controlling the infrastructure of this country, making sure every piece fits perfectly... and here I am, losing my mind over a 'defective' Omega who wants nothing to do with me."

He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "I suppose Dmitry was right. I really am going crazy."