Chapter 2
The bell above the door lets out a cheerful chime as I stroll into Wooil’s pawn shop, and I’m barely two steps inside before he pops up from behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box.
“Where the fuck did you disappear to last night?” Wooil demands, coming around the counter to whack me on the arm. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but the indignation in the gesture is clear.
I shrug, sidestepping him to walk around the counter and help myself to the mini-fridge he keeps back there. “It stopped being interesting.”
The cool glass of the cider bottle feels good against my palm as I crack it open. I took a few more hits than usual last night between the fight and the chase, and everything aches in that satisfying way that tells me I’m alive. The cider is crisp and sweet on my tongue.
Wooil plants his hands on his hips, frowning as he eyes me up and down. His reading glasses dangle from the chain around his neck, catching the fluorescent light. “We were barely there an hour. What happened? Did you get rejected or something?”
“Hardly,” I grumble, taking another swig.
I drop onto the stool behind his counter with a sigh, letting my head fall back against the wall. The shop is quiet this morning. Shelves packed with everything from vintage watches to old gaming consoles line the walls.
“I struck out again,” I admit, rolling the cold bottle against my forehead. “Found an alpha, decent looking guy, seemed promising. But he folded like paper as soon as he caught a hint of my pheromones.”
Wooil tuts, shaking his head as he leans against the counter. “Still on that ill-fated mission to get your ass drilled, are you?”
I flip him off without heat.
“Why don’t you save yourself the time and just accept your position in life?
” Wooil continues, warming to his lecture.
“You’re a dominant alpha, Yujeong. Who the fuck is going to be crazy enough to top you?
” He spreads his hands wide, as if presenting an obvious truth.
“I don’t know what your problem is anyway.
Who mopes over having too many holes to fill? ”
“Born to top, cursed to desire being on bottom,” I mutter into my bottle.
Wooil snorts, but there’s sympathy in his eyes even as he shakes his head. “Maybe you need to put out an ad or something. ‘Wanted: Alpha strong enough to rail another alpha. Must be comfortable with psychological warfare and the constant threat of being dominated instead.’“
Despite my mood, I crack a smile. “I’m starting to consider all options at this point.”
I rake a hand through my hair, probably making it stick up worse than it already does. The frustration bubbles up in my chest. “It’s been months since I’ve had a good lay. At this point, I’m just angry jerking through my fucking ruts.”
“Gross.” Wooil wrinkles his nose, holding up a hand. “Join a dating app or something. Spare me the details of your tragic sex life.”
“I tried that,” I say, slumping further on the stool. “All the dominant alphas specifically state on their profiles: no alphas. And if I try to message them anyway, they block me before I can even finish typing.”
Wooil laughs, the bastard, actually laughs at my misery. “Damn, I can see why you’re fighting so well lately. Directly channeling all that pent-up frustration.”
He’s not wrong. Last night’s fight was particularly satisfying, even if I did let my opponent get in a few good hits first. There’s something about the pain that helps, that cuts through the constant irritation of being stuck in a body that wants things it can’t have.
I stand, draining the last of the cider and tossing the bottle into Wooil’s recycling bin with a satisfying clink. “Speaking of which, I need to head to the gym.”
I pause as I come around the counter, remembering the duffel bag I’d stashed outside the shop this morning. “Oh, do you mind if I leave some of my stuff here?”
Wooil’s eyes narrow immediately. “Why?”
“Taewoo and his goons sniffed out my new place, so I have to find a new rental.”
“Again?” Wooil sputters, his voice pitching up in disbelief. “Damn, they’re relentless. Are you sure they can’t track you here?”
I wave him off, already heading for the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll only leave my stuff here for a day or two. I have enough for a new deposit, I just have to find a place out of the way enough.”
Wooil looks uncertain, chewing on his bottom lip in that way he does when he’s weighing options. His fingers tap against the counter.
Finally, he shrugs. “Whatever. But if they show up here and trash my shop, I’m billing you for damages.”
“Deal,” I say with a grin, pushing open the door. The bell chimes again, cheerful and oblivious.
The gym session leaves me pleasantly sore, muscles singing with that good kind of burn that comes from pushing hard. I grab my duffel and head out into the late afternoon sun, squinting against the brightness as I mentally map out my route.
Going straight back to my apartment would be stupid. Taewoo’s probably got someone watching the place, waiting for me to show up. So I take the long way, cutting through the backstreets and run-down neighborhoods where nobody pays attention to anyone else’s business.
The area gets progressively shittier as I walk, graffiti-tagged buildings giving way to boarded-up storefronts and cracked pavement. Trash skitters across the street in the breeze. A few stray cats eye me from their perches on dumpsters before deciding I’m not worth the effort of running from.
I pull out my lighter, flicking it open and closed as I walk. The metallic click is soothing, something to occupy my hands. My mind wanders back to Wooil’s suggestion about the dating ad, and I find myself mentally composing what that ad would even look like.
Dominant alpha seeking same. Must be strong enough to actually dominate me. Serious inquiries only. No submissives, no betas, no omegas.
Yeah, that would go over well.
Click. Click. Click.
The lighter’s rhythm matches my footsteps as I turn down another alley, this one narrower than the last. The buildings here are ancient, probably dating back decades, their facades crumbling and—
I stop.
The sound is faint, muffled by distance and walls, but unmistakable. The meaty thud of fists hitting flesh. Grunts of pain. The shuffle of feet on concrete.
My fingers still on the lighter.
It’s none of my business. I should keep walking, get to my apartment, grab my stuff, and get out before Taewoo’s goons circle back. Getting involved in whatever’s happening around the corner would be monumentally stupid.
I back up a few steps, then edge toward the source of the noise.
The alley opens into what looks like it used to be a delivery area for some long-defunct business. Loading dock doors are rusted shut, windows boarded over. The space is enclosed on three sides, secluded and perfect for the kind of business nobody wants witnesses for.
And there’s definitely business happening.
I press myself against the corner of the building, peering around carefully. My heart kicks up a beat, adrenaline starting to trickle into my bloodstream.
There are maybe seven or eight men scattered around the concrete lot.
All of them are huge, the kind of bulk that comes from both the gym and a willingness to use violence.
Tattoos crawl up their necks, disappear under their shirts.
The ink is too detailed, too extensive to be anything casual.
These aren’t guys who got drunk and decided to get matching tribal bands. These are mobsters.
Several bodies are already down, sprawled across the concrete in various states of consciousness. One guy is trying to crawl away, leaving a smear of blood behind him. Another is curled on his side, wheezing.
The enforcers have formed a loose circle, and they’re dragging someone forward. The man stumbles, barely keeping his feet. Blood drips from his nose, his lip split open. His hands are bound behind his back.
Two of the enforcers grab him by the arms and haul him forward, then literally throw him. He hits the concrete hard, unable to catch himself with his hands tied, and lands in a heap at someone’s feet.
Their boss obviously.
The boss doesn’t even look bothered by the carnage at his feet.
He pulls out a cigarette, movements unhurried as he lights it.
The flame illuminates his face for a second, and I get a better look at him.
Not much older than me, maybe early thirties.
Striking in a way that makes my breath catch.
His bone structure looks like it was cut from glass, all sharp angles and perfect symmetry.
Dark hair styled back with not a strand out of place despite the violence he’s clearly been orchestrating.
His eyes though. Those are what hold my attention. Cold. Calculating. There’s not an ounce of sympathy in them as he stares down at the bleeding man at his feet.
He takes a long drag, exhales a stream of smoke that curls up into the darkening sky.
“You should know better,” he says, voice smooth and almost conversational. “You know what we do to traitors.”
The man on the ground coughs, blood bubbling at his lips.
The boss tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering something mildly interesting. “I’ll give you one chance to beg nicely for your life.”
The man on the ground spits blood onto the concrete, some of it splattering on the boss’s expensive-looking shoes. “Go fuck yourself.”
The boss laughs. Actually laughs, but the sound is ice cold, without any real humor.
Then, without even pausing, without removing the cigarette from his lips, he lashes out. His foot connects with the man’s jaw in a vicious kick that sends blood and what might be teeth spraying across the concrete.
My heart slams against my ribs.
The man crumples sideways, groaning. The boss squats down, still smoking casually, and grabs him by the hair, yanking his head up so they’re face to face.
“Have it your way then.”