Page 15 of Knot Their Princess

My tiny bag of ratty clothes and a toothbrush, he means.

Petrov takes my hand and leads me to toward the stairway, but he walks around it to a massive, ornate concierge desk. More marble and gold greet us here, and matching light fixtures to the chandelier up front, only smaller. The front of the marble desk is covered in gold panels with some kind of filigree relief on each of them.

Behind the desk are several attendants, all wearing matching uniforms of black and gold with gold name tags pinned to their lapels.

“Checking in. Reservation is under Mikhail Petrov and Sindella Vittorio.”

The young Beta behind the desk smiles brightly before tapping away on a large screen in front of him. “Of course, Mr. Petrov. Ms. Vittorio.” He looks off to the side and waves a man forward, this one another Beta, a short-brimmed bell-boy hat on his head. His name tag reads Christopher.

The concierge hands a small envelope to him before before he turns to us with a welcoming smile. “Please, follow me.”

We do as he asks, and he leads us to an elevator, just as ornate and out of my realm of reality as the rest of the hotel.

He pulls a small plastic card from the envelope in his hand and waves it in front of the control panel, and tells us as he punches numbers in, “Your penthouse suite is on the fifteenth floor, and your code was emailed to you. You wave your key in front of this pad,” he gestures at a black box at the top of the elevator controls, “and punch your number. Easy-peasy.”

Petrov squeezes my hand gently, like a sign of comfort, as he takes out his smartphone and taps the screen one-handed. “I’ll send the code to your phone, darling.”

That’s great, but I don’t have a phone. And he knows this.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing a hallway with a single, solid wood door across from us. More marble and gold and crystal abound. The more I’m surrounded by it, the more uncomfortable I become in my own skin.

Christopher turns to us at the door where he taps the same key from the elevator, turns the handle and swings the door open, gesturing for us to enter. “I’ll be right here while you check over the room. Let me know if there are any issues that need addressing.”

As Petrov guides me through the door, my whisper of thanks to Christopher dies on my lips.

Just past the door, we’re greeted by the largest living room I’ve ever seen. Gray wall-to-wall carpeting, a plush, black sectional couch settled in front of a TV the size of a movie screen. A fireplace with a marble mantle sits on the other side, the far wall floor-to-ceiling windows with a gorgeous view of the city beyond. And it looks like there’s some kind of private patio out there.

I follow Petrov through to the next room, and stop short again.

The bedroom is almost as enormous as the living room, the bed large enough for a pack of six. Maybe more. The bedspread is black and gray, the floor is a dark hardwood with a gorgeous area rug beneath the bed. There are dressers here, a second fireplace with two plush chairs set on either side of it, and another TV. On the far wall is an open door that leads to a mix of gray marble and tile, another giant crystal chandelier, a dual-sink vanity with an enormous mirror, and separate tub and shower.

When I turn back to the bed, I’m suddenly lightheaded, the room begins to spin, and my ass plants onto the mattress with a bounce.

“Are you all right?”

Petrov is at my side in a blink, taking my hands in his. “You’re shivering and your skin is clammy. Have you eaten?”

Eaten? Oh, gods. Images of Tasha, bound and beaten, swim across my mind, mutating into Matty, threatening to bring up bile from my empty stomach.

“I…” my voice fails me.

“Lie down,” he commands with care. “I’ll be right back.”

Petrov leaves, and my back crashes to the super soft mattress behind me. When my eyes flutter open, I’m shocked they’d been closed in the first place. Delicious smells that blessedly don’t churn my stomach fill the air.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Petrov’s voice carries from the doorway, followed by clinking and shuffling as I slowly push myself up into a seated position on the bed. Petrov wheels a room service cart over to the chairs by the fireplace, takes the paper guard off the top of a glass of orange juice and hands it to me.

“Drink this first. Bring your sugar up.”

No arguments from me, I gulp the sweet juice down gratefully, breath coming hard when I’m finished.

Petrov takes the empty glass and places it on the cart, then helps me rise to my feet, which I notice are shoeless, then shuffles me to one of the chairs where I sit while he begins to uncover platters, revealing pancakes and waffles, croissants, eggs, bacon, sausage…

I gape at the spread then peer up at Petrov. “This looks amazing,” I breathe. “And smells even better.”

He smiles at me and sits in the chair across from mine. “But a touch of what an Omega like you deserves.”