A Sokolov's Rut

Maksim stepped even closer, the sheer wall of his chest nearly pressing against Kit’s face.

He raised two fingers and tapped them sharply against his own forehead—a dismissive, arrogant gesture that practically screamed, “Is there anything going on in that brain of yours?”

The sharp motion snapped Kit out of his trance.

The singing birds in his stomach were instantly replaced by a swarm of angry hornets.

Maksim leaned in, his shadow swallowing Kit whole. When he spoke again, the Russian was gone, replaced by English that was heavy with a cold, aristocratic accent.

"It seems you do not speak the language of the country you live in," Maksim purred, his voice a dangerous low-frequency vibration. "So I will ask you again before I call security to throw you out into the snow: What are you doing at my door? Are you trying to break in?"

Before Kit could even open his mouth, Maksim’s eyes—framed by those startling white lashes—swept down Kit’s body. He took in the oversized, worn-out hoodie, the dirty sneakers, and the overall look of a street stray. A smirk, cruel and beautiful, curled his lip.

"Actually, how did a... thing like you even get past the lobby?" Maksim asked. "You look like you can barely afford bread, let alone the clothes on your back. Did you crawl in through the vents?"

Kit didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out and placed a hand firmly against Maksim’s expensive silk tie, pushing the giant Alpha back just an inch. It was a gentle push, but the sheer audacity of an Omega touching an Elite Alpha during his Root made the air in the hallway turn to ice.

"First of all," Kit started, his American sass coming out in full force as he looked directly into those frozen steel eyes. "I’m not breaking in, Mr. White Eyes. And secondly? I might be broke, but your arrogance is a lot uglier than my sneakers."

Kit crossed his arms, leaning back against the door he had just been banging on. "I came here for a private performance. I’m 'Peaches.' But one thing I don't tolerate—even for one grand—is being disrespected by a shitty, arrogant Alpha who thinks he can talk down to me because he has a shiny hotel."

Kit let out a sharp, annoyed breath, turning to walk away. "I’m not doing this anymore. You've ruined my mood. Pay for my taxi ride back to thr velvet right now."

Maksim’s eyes widened, his white lashes fluttering for a split second in genuine shock before he composed himself. No one—not his board of directors, not his rivals, and certainly not a 'defective' Omega—had ever spoken to him like that. He let out a dry, incredulous chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.

"Do you have even the slightest idea who you are speaking to, little bird?" Maksim asked, his voice dropping to a level that usually made people drop to their knees in terror.

Kit didn't even look back as he started heading for the elevator. "I don't give a fuck who you are, Mr. White Eyes! Just give me my taxi money. You're a mood killer and I'm tired."

Maksim didn’t let him get five feet. Before Kit could even reach the call button, a hand like a titanium shackle clamped around his wrist.

"I am not finished with you," Maksim growled.

He didn't walk Kit back to the door; he steered him, his sheer mass making it impossible for Kit to do anything but stumble along. When they reached the double doors, Maksim didn't just swipe the gold card.

He held it against the sensor, and instead of a beep, the card seemed to liquefy, a pulse of blue light running through the gold leaf as it synced with the biometric signature in Maksim's thumb.

It was SK Deep-Pulse technology—the kind of lock that required the owner’s literal DNA to activate. The doors didn't just open; they retreated into the walls with a silent, pressurized hiss.

Maksim shoved Kit inside the penthouse. The space was a vast, cold cathedral of marble, dark wood, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the frozen Moscow skyline. Before Kit could even regain his balance, the doors hissed shut and locked with a heavy, final thud.

Maksim was still grasping Kit’s wrist, his grip bruisingly tight. He loomed over the smaller man, his white hair glowing under the dim, recessed lighting of the foyer.

"You came here to perform for me, didn't you, Persichek?" Maksim asked. His voice was a cruel purr, using the Russian word for 'Little Peach.' It sounded squishy, almost sweet, but the way he spat it out made it feel like he was calling Kit a piece of soft, overripe fruit he intended to crush.

Before Kit could snap back, Maksim’s other hand slid around Kit's waist, hauling him flush against the hard, tailored lines of his suit.

The Alpha’s scent—that electric, suffocating ozone—was a roar now, enough to make a normal person’s heart stop. Maksim leaned in, his nose brushing against Kit’s, his lips a mere breath away from the red gloss on Kit’s mouth.

"Forget the dancing," Maksim whispered, his eyes dark with the heat of his oncoming Root. "Make me feel good, and I will give you a fortune you can never imagine. You will never have to wear such filth again."

Kit’s eyes narrowed. For a split second, the air was still. Maksim waited for the submission, for the gasp of pleasure, for the broken Omega to melt into his arms.

CRACK.

The sound of the slap echoed through the hollow marble penthouse like a gunshot.

Maksim’s head jerked to the side, his cheek instantly blooming with a fiery red handprint. Kit didn't just slap him; he put every ounce of his frustration, his poverty, and his hatred for arrogant Alphas into that palm.

Kit shoved Maksim away with a snarl, his chest heaving under his hoodie. He spat on the pristine marble floor between them.

"I told you," Kit hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "No. Touching. I don’t care if you’re a Sokolov or the Czar of all Russia—keep your filthy, 'fortune-giving' hands off me. I’m a performer, not your personal stress ball, you White-haired freak."

Maksim’s head slowly turned back, his jaw tight. He didn't look angry—he looked electrified.

His pupils, usually a haunting, snowy white, began to bleed into a predatory, glowing red. The Rut was no longer knocking at the door; it had torn the hinges off.

His breathing turned into a jagged, heavy rasp that echoed in the silent foyer. The smell of Ozone spiked so hard it felt like the oxygen was being sucked out of the room.

"Wow... so feisty," Maksim rumbled, his voice dropping into a guttural, animalistic register. He stepped forward, stalking Kit like a wolf cornering a rabbit. "But why the slap, Persichek? Aren't you here for this? Aren't you here to be used by an Alpha?"

"I'm here to dance, you oversized fridge!" Kit yelled, but his voice cracked.

Before he could move, Maksim lunged. He grabbed Kit’s hand, his grip like iron, and forced it down, pressing Kit’s palm flat against the front of his expensive trousers. Kit’s breath hitched.

Beneath the fabric, the Alpha's dick was rock-hard and throbbing with a violent heat.

"I can't control it anymore," Maksim hissed, leaning his forehead against Kit’s, his red eyes burning into Kit's soul. "I can't even smell you, you little ghost... but looking at your face... it really makes me so hard, it's almost hurting. So now You’re going to do your job. Get down and start sucking. Now."

Kit fought to pull his hand away, his heart hammering against his ribs. But then, a terrifying sensation washed over him—a traitorous, warm dampness between his own thighs.

No. No way. He had performed for rich Alphas in Moscow since he started working at the club and yet felt nothing. He was broken. He was a NULL. He wasn't supposed to react to pheromones.

Yet, the sheer, raw proximity of this man was doing something his biology said was impossible.

With a surge of panicked strength, Kit finally wrenched his arm back. He tried to bolt, but Maksim’s weight suddenly buckled.

The Alpha groaned, his massive, muscular frame leaning heavily onto Kit, pinning him against the marble wall. Maksim was dead weight—hundreds of pounds of pure muscle and burning fever.

"Hey! Mr. White Eyes! Get off!" Kit shouted, his hands shoving at Maksim’s broad chest. "My rules stand! No touching! No sex! I am not a damn Omega toy!"

Maksim’s ozone scent flared in a final, desperate wave—a "Molecular Pressure" so high with a being such as a Sokolov like Maxim was 100%, it was now so intense that the glass windows of the penthouse literally began to vibrate.

If Kit were any other Omega, the sheer force of Maksim's presence would have sent him into a seizure or a forced heat.

But Kit just stood there, supporting the weight of a half-conscious giant, breathing in the scent of a thunderstorm without even a cough.

He was the only person in the world who could stand in the center of Maksim Sokolov’s storm and keep his head up.

"You're heavy as hell!" Kit wheezed, struggling to keep them both upright. "Anton is so dead. I am definitely charging double for this. Get off me!"

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