4. Chapter 4
Islip through the hotel’s revolving doors with a cluster of businessmen in expensive suits, keeping my head down and my shoulders relaxed like I belong here.
The Central Plaza’s lobby is full of marble floors and crystal chandeliers, the kind of place where my usual ripped jeans and leather jacket would get me escorted out by security before I made it ten feet.
So I’d raided Wooil’s closet earlier—well, more like broke into his apartment while he was at the shop and borrowed without asking—and now I’m wearing dark slacks that are slightly too short and a button-up shirt that pulls a bit tight across my shoulders.
Not perfect, but good enough to blend in with the wealthy assholes milling around.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I cross the lobby, keeping my pace casual even though every instinct screams at me to hurry.
The reservation info Wooil dug up burns in my mind: penthouse suite, checked in under some shell company name that traces back to Phantom Lotus.
I’d memorized the details three times over.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime and I step inside, jabbing the button for the floor below the penthouse.
A middle-aged couple joins me at the last second, the woman dripping in diamonds and reeking of perfume so strong it makes my nose itch.
I angle myself into the corner, pulling out my phone and pretending to scroll through messages while my pulse races.
This is insane. This is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I once tried to fight three Taekwondo champions at once while drunk outside a competition just to see if I could.
But the memory of those pheromones keeps me moving forward.
I’ve never felt anything like that before.
Never met an alpha who could make me want to submit and fight at the same time, whose presence alone made every nerve ending in my body light up like a fucking Christmas tree.
The elevator slows, and the couple gets off on the twelfth floor, leaving me alone for the final stretch. I watch the numbers climb, each one making my stomach flip a little harder. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
The doors open and I step out into a hallway that’s somehow even more luxurious than the lobby.
Thick carpet, walls covered in tasteful art that I’m pretty sure is original, lighting so subtle and perfect it has to be custom-designed.
I glance around, spotting the security camera mounted in the corner, and keep walking like I have every right to be here.
The stairwell door is tucked away at the end of the hall, unmarked except for a small sign.
I slip through it, and the temperature drops immediately, the concrete stairs and industrial lighting a sharp contrast to the plush hallway.
My footsteps echo as I climb, taking the steps two at a time until I reach the next floor.
The penthouse level is quieter, emptier.
Only two doors line this hallway, spaced far enough apart that the suites must be massive.
I pause at the stairwell door, cracking it open just enough to peer out.
The camera up here is positioned to cover both suite entrances, which means I need to find somewhere to wait that won’t get me caught on film.
I ease the door shut and scan the hallway through the narrow window. There—about halfway down, a door marked “Maintenance” in small letters. If I time it right, I can slip out when the camera pans away and make it there without being spotted.
I wait, counting the seconds as the camera sweeps slowly across the hallway.
Thirty seconds one way, thirty seconds back.
The pattern repeats three times before I’m confident enough to move.
The moment the lens points away from my position, I shove through the door and sprint down the hallway on silent feet, my hand already reaching for the maintenance closet’s handle.
It’s unlocked. Thank fuck.
I slip inside and pull the door almost closed behind me, leaving just enough of a gap to see out.
The closet is cramped and smells like cleaning chemicals, shelves lined with supplies and extra linens.
I shift a stack of towels to make a space where I can sit on the floor, wedging myself between a vacuum cleaner and a cart full of toilet paper.
I silence my phone and shove it back in my pocket, settling in to wait. Through the crack in the door, I have a clear view of both suite entrances.
An hour crawls by in that cramped closet.
My legs start to cramp from sitting in the same position, and I shift carefully, trying not to knock over the vacuum cleaner wedged against my shoulder.
The chemical smell of the cleaning supplies makes my head ache, but I don’t dare leave my hiding spot. Not when I’m this close.
I’m starting to wonder if Wooil’s information was wrong when the elevator chimes.
My attention snaps to the hallway. The doors slide open and a figure steps out, and I feel my stomach drop. An omega. Of course.
He’s beautiful in a carefully maintained way.
Soft features, flawless skin, hair styled to look effortlessly tousled even though it probably took an hour to achieve.
He’s wearing clothes that fit him perfectly, expensive fabrics that drape just right, and he carries a small overnight bag with the kind of casual confidence that says he’s done this before.
A professional. This isn’t some random hookup Suha picked up at a bar, this is a hired omega, probably from one of those high-end escort services that cater exclusively to wealthy alphas.
The omega walks down the hallway toward Suha’s suite. He doesn’t look nervous at all. Why would he? He’s probably been paid a small fortune for tonight.
I move before I can second-guess myself.
The maintenance closet door swings open silently, and I slip out, my footsteps quiet on the plush carpet. The omega doesn’t hear me coming. I close the distance in three quick strides and clap my hand over his mouth from behind, my other arm wrapping around his waist as I drag him backward.
He makes a muffled sound of shock, his body going rigid.
The overnight bag hits the floor with a soft thump as he starts to struggle, his hands clawing at my arm.
But I’m a dominant alpha and he’s an omega, and the strength difference is impossible to overcome.
I haul him back into the maintenance closet and kick the door shut behind us.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say quietly, keeping my voice low and even. “I just need to borrow your identity for the night.”
His eyes go wide, pupils dilating with fear. He tries to scream against my palm and I tighten my grip, shaking my head.
“I mean it. I’m not going to hurt you. Just stay quiet and this will be over quickly.”
I reach into my jacket pocket with my free hand and pull out the rope I brought.
I’d grabbed it from Wooil’s stash of random shit he keeps in his storage room, along with a clean cloth for a gag.
The omega’s struggles intensify when he sees the rope, and I feel a pang of guilt, but I shove it down. I’ve come too far to back out now.
“Stop fighting,” I tell him, releasing just enough pheromones to make him go still.
Not enough to hurt him, just enough to trigger his omega instincts to submit.
His body goes limp in my arms, and I hate myself a little for it, but I work quickly, binding his wrists behind his back and then his ankles.
I make sure the rope isn’t too tight, checking that I can slip two fingers between the bindings and his skin. Uncomfortable, but not painful.
The gag goes in next. He makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t resist as I tie the cloth around his mouth. His eyes are huge and terrified, tracking my every movement.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and I mean it. I prop him up in the corner behind a stack of boxes and an industrial-sized container of floor cleaner, somewhere he won’t be easily spotted if someone opens the door. “Someone will find you in the morning. Just... try to get comfortable.”
He glares at me over the gag, and honestly, I don’t blame him. I grab his overnight bag from where it fell in the hallway and pull the door shut, leaving him in the dark.
My hands are shaking as I smooth down my borrowed shirt and take a deep breath.
The omega’s room key card is in my pocket now, a small piece of plastic that’s my ticket into Suha’s suite.
This is insane. This is absolutely fucking insane.
I just assaulted and tied up an innocent person.
I’m about to walk into the suite of one of the most dangerous crime lords in Seoul and pretend to be an omega prostitute.
But I’m motivated by a track record of unhinged behavior and perpetual horniness.
I pick up the overnight bag and walk toward Suha’s suite. The camera in the corner tracks my movement, but I don’t look at it, keeping my head slightly ducked like I’m just another hired companion arriving for a discreet appointment.
The door looms in front of me, heavy and expensive-looking. There’s a doorbell mounted on the wall beside it, a small brass button that gleams under the hallway lights.
I ring it.
The sound echoes faintly and then there’s silence. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Footsteps approach from inside the suite.
The door swings open, and my breath catches in my throat.
Suha stands there in an unbuttoned dress shirt and black slacks, and fuck, he’s even more devastating up close than he was in that alley.
The shirt hangs open to reveal a sculpted chest and abs that look carved from stone, and I can see the edge of a back tattoo curling over his shoulder.
His dark eyes sweep over me with immediate interest, but there’s also a flicker of confusion that makes my stomach clench.