MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS

Much to his surprise, making it past a bunch of men who were drinking, getting high and fucking women was easier than he imagined it might be. And infuriating. If they felt secure enough to waste time like that, Matt had undoubtedly made the right choice. Checking the glass would be a waste of time in lieu of what he might learn out here. 

Fine. Whatever. He could take that hit on the chin. What he found considerably more difficult was sorting through the myriad of rooms in the hall and listening in to determine who was inside. All while remaining quiet and searching for the room in question. With the cacophony of nasty scents mingling in the air alongside cigar smoke, omegas, sex and humidity, the additional noise was making it impossible to focus. 

He'd been about to give up entirely when the scent of something familiar cut through the shit in the air; roasting marshmallows over an open fire. Fresh smores and a hint of caramel. It drew Matt deeper down the hall, and apparently to the left, as it turned a corner and led to another set of rooms. There, in the darker hall—with still nicer rugs and decor than had been in the space Matt was staying—he saw it. A room with a light spilling out from under the slightly ajar door. 

Not wanting to push his luck further than he already had, Matt silently padded toward it like a cat stalking a mouse. That familiar, dizzying and enraging scent grew more powerful as he approached, and once Matt was close enough, he relaxed his back flat against the wall next to the crack in the door and listened. 

"... hate doing this. It makes me sick. Fuck, I wish I'd never been sent here with you. What was the main branch thinking?" Lev said. 

Drunkenly, bitterly, and as though speaking those words aloud would somehow change what he suggested to be an unjust fate. However, Matt's brows curved and kissed as Lev continued what sounded like a one-sided conversation. 

"That bitch. Can't she let it go already? Tsk. How long will she punish me for the sins of her father? And you, why can't you just do as you're told without the extra incentive?? I can only throw up so many times in a single night." 

Harsh clattering glasses. The sound of something being poured. A sharp, irritating crash that suggested something was being broken; how Matt wished he could see what the fuck was happening in there.

"What have you got to say for yourself? Speak up! Bah, Master Bogdanov. What a joke. You have everyone in Russia terrified to even utter your name, but what would they say if they saw you now, like this??"

Heart leaping into his throat, Matt's fingers clawed the cabin wall under them. He refused to be concerned about that bastard traitor. There was nothing to be concerned about; he deserved death for what he did. Matt watched him die, once. He'd never even so much as hesitated or flinched while it happened back then.

So someone needed to explain to him why the fuck he felt a near overwhelming urge to slam in there and tear out Lev's throat, because he sure as shit had no answers. 

More shuffling and quiet cursing from the man who was swiftly earning Mattias' bloodlust wasn't helping the bastard's case. "Nothing to say? Of course not. You've nothing in your arsenal to respond with. Bah, how long has it been?" 

Matt heard more movement, and for the first time since he arrived, Cifer's deep baritone voice piped up again. It was abyssal and smooth, cutting through Matt's mental defenses enough to make his hair stand on end for the millionth time. 

"... Four hours."

Four??

"I'm sick of your face. Get yourself together and get the hell out of my room! Go back to that ugly fucking American Pig of yours. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere tonight. Act normal as soon as you leave this room. Get out!!"

Oh, fuck. Briefly scolding himself as he sprung into action, Matt pushed off the wall the second he heard Cifer say something in the affirmative. But he wasn't paying much attention. He had to leave before he got caught. Without so much as looking back, Matt broke into a small, brisk run—probably better called a power walk than anything else—as he began tracing back his steps with an anxious urgency.

Head hardly wrapping around the conversation he'd just eavesdropped on, Matt turned the corner and headed back into the busier hall. Not before checking briefly to see if the coast was clear, though. It was, and the alpha had made it about halfway through it before disaster struck. Abruptly, and with zero signs, the door to a room opened and a clearly shit faced thug stumbled out, grabbing himself through his pants. 

"... Gotta piss," the man said. Feet tumbled over one another and, just as Matt had crossed into his line of sight, another man shouted from the room he'd just exited. 

"Close the door, or you'll scare the omegas!"

The man who was about Matt's size shut the door so unsteadily, he wondered if he was about to pass out. However, while the man was facing away from him, his body moved on its own—he could either stay here, waiting for the man to leave and get caught by Cifer, or he could try to get ahead of the inebriated Russian and avoid Cifer. If he was lucky, he could trip the drunkard on his own two feet and make it back to his room before any chaos broke out. 

If it was between Cifer and some dumbass who's positively sloshed, Matt chose the drunkard. There's a chance he'd get caught by both men in question, but the rewards of getting away without seeing Cifer on the off chance he was faster outweighed the risks. Sore legs breaking into a sprint, he whizzed past the alpha and gained quite a few steps over him before he noticed what was happening. It didn't take long for him to realize Matt was careening down the hall, and the bastard gave chase with a shout. 

"Little shit!"

Matt wasn't about to let this ruin his escape, but as he ran, he realized something rather crucial slipped his mind—his busted up knee. The more he ran, the more weight he put on it, the harder he limped. Pain blossomed in his leg; it shrieked and burned as though a blade had slipped through the soft bits, and he slowed as soon as he hit the stairs. 

"Get back here, you little bastard! I fought in the war—I know what you did!"

Great. Drunk enough to chase ghosts for revenge, or whatever other madness was going through this guy's head. Matt heard the man skipping steps, felt the old staircase groan at the weight of both alphas shooting down it. A hand swiped so close to the back of his neck that, out of an old reflex, he leapt down the final few steps and landed in a slight crouch at the bottom. 

Instant agony shot through his leg and up into every fiber of his being; and as it did, he partially stumbled and crashed into the wall adjacent to the bottom of the steps. 

That was all the guy needed to catch up. An exceedingly drunk Russian body checked Matt so hard, one painting lining the staircase rattled so violently it fell from the wall. The impact shattered the case instantly, but Matt lacked time to consider whether others had heard anything. Wrists snatched and brought behind his back with one hand; the shockingly coordinated drunk gripped the back of his neck and slammed Matt's face against the wall. 

Had he not turned his cheek in time, his nose probably would have busted all over again. Stars exploding into his vision, he attempted to struggle, only to find some sort of weight holding them down. Almost like he was being buried alive in sand. Out of the corner of his eyes, Matt caught sight of what appeared to be dirt from a nearby potted plant flowing through the air towards his back—shit!

This guy was a supe. Even if he was drunk as hell, he'd be difficult to handle. That had always been a possibility, and despite his current situation, Matt still didn't regret his decision. 

"... I was just out for a walk—"

"Liar!! You were spying."

"On what? Your tiny knot?"

Ah, tits. The hormonal alpha in him was lashing out again. The hand on the back of his neck slipped into his hair instead, gripping the longer bits as he tugged Matt's head back and smashed his face back against the wall. An explosion of ringing filled his ears and shook his brain. 

"Shut up, pig! I'll show you tiny knot, you—"

The man released Matt's wrists, but the dirt prison that had encompassed them held him still enough. Matt was about to aim a backward kick at the bastard's shin when he felt him press against his back and box him in. Teeth gnashed as a strange, awful throb filled the space between his temples, and for a moment, he could have sworn he felt something physically stir inside his belly. 

"Piss on you, show you who's boss."

"Piss on yourself, prick!"

The absolute gall of this shitfaced man! What an absurd thing to do that only someone completely drowned in their cups would think of.

That idea angered him more than he cared to admit. Clothes rustling, the adjusting of a belt hit his ears just as he started trying to push back against his earthen restraints—or at least shove the crazy man off him. He made some headway, or he thought he had, when the man backed off and gave Matt some wiggle room. As soon as the feeling of something blunt and warm brushed against the small of his back, Matt realized he'd just given himself room to maneuver his cock out. 

Clenched teeth paired with wild, uncontrolled fighting against what was about to happen and created a flurry of movement. Insane, animalistic rage drew his face into an ugly snarl as it did.

"I'll kill you—"

The man grunted as Mattias lashed out maniacally, and right when their positions returned to a struggle for control over the situation, the situation took a turn for the worst. 

CRACK! 

His dirt prison crumbled to the floor, and the digits entangled painfully in his locks released him almost instantly. An opportunity arose to suck in a sharp breath at the sudden release of tension. Matt whirled around and planted his knee into the groin of the already partially unconscious man. The bastard grunted and doubled forward, gripping his exposed member with agony, bleeding the color from his face. 

Without a second thought, Mattias grabbed the side of his head and brought him against the renovated wall to their right. He cracked the side of his face against it so hard, blood splattered across the wood and his eyes rolled. Satisfaction pulsed through his veins; releasing his aggressor to watch him crumple like a fucking crouton, Matt cracked his neck, took a step away from the staircase and brought a hand to wipe at something wet near his mouth. 

Blood. He could smell the rot and iron before he saw the blackened red. Part of him wanted to spit on the man and make him ill, but that would be the actions of a monster. Matt still wasn't a monster. He refused to turn into one, either. All the same, it was odd—what was that sound, and how had the man faltered so quickly? Before his eyes could lift off the man on the floor, he had his answer. 

A searingly feverish vice gripped his arm and wrenched him to the side, dragging him into the common area. That boiling hand dragged Matt into the common area, making him trip, flinch, and sputter out a cry of protest. 

"Cif–"

"Shut up!"

There it was again. Cifer's alpha voice. Words perished on his parched, numb tongue. That sound filled Matt to his core, and even as he attempted to bypass or force his body to react differently, he was stunned and filled with that curious disquiet all over again. In a repeat of the last time he'd heard it, Matt found himself temporarily unable to act as he's hauled into the lobby, up the stairs and through the hall back to his room. 

Thrown inside his room without so much as a merciful warning, the old wood beneath his feet scraped him so harshly he could feel blisters forming. Once again, he opened his mouth, and despite the wild look he had earlier returned to his face, no sound filtered out all the same. Just as he caught himself from tumbling, Matt whipped around to face Cifer, but got blinded when the man flipped on the lights. 

His hand coming up to shield his eyes had been yet another mistake, because the second Matt left an opening, Cifer planted his palm against the smaller Alpha's chest and shoved him with a vengeance. Matt flew backwards—legs hitting the edge of the bed; he fell back onto the hazardous mattress with a breathy grunt. Dizzy from the intensity of the last few minutes, Mattias barely propped onto his elbows as he lay on his back with his legs bent over the edge of the bed when Cifer tossed him for another loop. 

The man leapt over him, pinning him where he was with a knee pressed between Matt's legs and the look of pure, terrifying madness twisting up Cifer's features.

Matt's blood ran cold.