5. Chapter 5
Iwake up sometime in the afternoon the following day feeling like I’ve been hit by a freight train, then backed over for good measure.
Every muscle in my body screams in protest when I try to move, and my throat feels like someone took sandpaper to it.
Which, considering the amount of screaming I did last night, isn’t far from the truth.
I blink slowly at the ceiling, taking stock. My mouth is dry as hell, my head is pounding, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single inch of my body that doesn’t hurt. But underneath all that pain is this deep, bone-deep satisfaction that makes me want to purr like a cat.
I fucking did it.
The warm weight of an arm draped over my waist reminds me I’m not alone.
I turn my head carefully—even that small movement makes my neck twinge—and find Suha dead to the world beside me, sprawled on his stomach with his face half-buried in a pillow.
His sleek black hair is a complete mess, sticking up in all directions, and without that severe expression he usually wears, he looks almost peaceful.
Almost.
The massive tattoo covering his back catches my attention now that I can actually appreciate it without being bent over and railed into the mattress.
It’s traditional Korean artwork, a tiger and dragon locked in battle amid storm clouds, all done in bright, colorful strokes.
The detail is insane, must have taken dozens of sessions to complete.
I want to trace the lines with my fingers, but I’m pretty sure if I wake him up right now, we’ll end up going another round, and I honestly don’t think my body can take it.
His rut finally seems to be over, thank fuck.
I lost count of how many times we went at it throughout the night and into the morning.
At some point, it all blurred together into a haze of pain and pleasure and those overwhelming pheromones that made my brain short-circuit every time he released them.
I carefully extract myself from under his arm, biting back a groan as my body protests the movement.
My ass feels like someone took a battering ram to it.
Multiple battering rams. I’m pretty sure I’m never going to walk normally again.
But looking down at the evidence scattered across my skin—deep bite marks on my shoulders and neck, bruises in the shape of fingers around my throat and wrists, my lips split and swollen—I find it completely worth it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it when my muscles scream at me. Standing up is even worse. I have to grab onto the nightstand for support, my legs shaking like a newborn deer. Yeah, I’m definitely walking with a limp today.
My clothes are scattered across the suite like a tornado hit.
I find my jeans crumpled near the door, one of my boots by the window, my shirt torn completely in half and discarded on the couch.
I piece together what I can salvage, pulling on my jeans with some difficulty and finding my other boot kicked under the bed.
The bathroom mirror is not kind when I finally make it there.
I look absolutely wrecked. My hair is sticking up in every direction, there are dark circles under my eyes, and my neck looks like I got mauled by a wild animal.
The bite marks are deep and angry-looking, some of them still oozing a little blood.
There’s no way I’m hiding these. I’m going to have to wear a turtleneck for the next week, and even that might not be enough.
My throat is ringed with bruises in the distinct shape of handprints. I touch them gently and wince. Yeah, those are going to be there for a while. My wrists have matching marks, along with my hips.
I splash some water on my face and try to make myself look somewhat presentable, but it’s a losing battle. I look like exactly what I am—someone who just spent the night getting absolutely destroyed by a dominant alpha in rut.
But the grin that spreads across my face is completely unrepentant.
Before I leave, I grab a notepad from the desk in the suite and scrawl out a message with the hotel pen: See you again next rut. Don’t worry, I know how to find you.
I leave it on the bedside table where Suha will see it when he wakes up, then gather what’s left of my dignity and my clothes and limp my way to the door.
The bell above Wooil’s pawn shop door chimes as I push through, and I’m barely three steps inside before he looks up from behind the counter and immediately starts slow clapping, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face like he just won the lottery.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, setting down whatever he was tinkering with and coming around the counter to get a better look at me. “Look who finally got the beating he wanted so badly.”
I flip him off but I can’t help the smug grin that tugs at my split lip.
Yeah, I look like absolute hell and I know it.
The turtleneck I dug out of my closet is doing exactly nothing to hide the damage.
The bruises creep up past the collar, dark purple fingerprints visible on my throat.
My face isn’t much better—there’s a cut on my cheekbone, my bottom lip is swollen, and I’m pretty sure I have a black eye forming.
“Holy shit,” Wooil says, circling me like I’m some kind of exotic animal at the zoo. He lets out a low whistle. “You look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder and lost spectacularly.”
“You should see the other guy,” I say automatically, then snort because that’s a complete lie. Suha probably woke up with barely a scratch on him while I look like I got ran over.
Wooil gestures at my neck, my face, probably the limp I’m trying very hard to hide as I make my way to the back room. “So? Did the mystery alpha live up to expectations or what?”
I drop onto his couch with a groan that I can’t quite suppress, my entire body protesting the movement.
But underneath all the soreness is this deep satisfaction that makes me want to stretch out like a cat in a sunbeam.
I lean my head back against the cushions and let that smug grin spread wider across my face.
“It was everything I hoped for and more,” I say, and I can hear the satisfaction dripping from my voice.
Wooil barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he grabs two bottles of cider from his mini fridge and tosses one to me. I catch it, crack it open, and take a long drink. The carbonation stings my split lip but I don’t even care.
“You’re fucking insane, you know that?” Wooil says, dropping into the chair across from me. “I mean, I knew that already, but this really drives it home. You look like you barely survived.”
“Worth every bruise,” I say, taking another sip. And I mean it. The constant edge of sexual frustration that’s been riding me for months is finally, finally dulled. I feel loose and relaxed in a way I haven’t in forever, like someone finally scratched an itch I couldn’t reach.
Wooil takes a drink of his cider, eyeing me over the bottle. “So now that you’ve finally gotten your ass pounded into oblivion, does this mean you’ll be less insufferable to be around? Because I have to tell you, the sexual frustration was getting old.”
“I make no promises,” I say, but I’m in too good a mood to really mean it.
“Big words for someone who looks like they can barely string a sentence together.”
I flip him off again, lazily this time.
Wooil leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against his bottle. “The guys have been asking about you, you know. Wondering where you disappeared to. We’re thinking about hitting up the club tonight if you’re up for it.”
I consider this. Normally the idea of going to a club and dealing with pushy omegas and disappointing alphas would make me want to stay home and drink alone.
But right now, riding this wave of post-fuck satisfaction, I actually feel like being social.
Maybe I can even stomach entertaining some omegas for once, throw the guys a bone by attracting some attention their way with my pheromones.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, surprising both of us. “Why not? I could use a drink.”
Wooil’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You’re actually agreeing to go out without me having to beg and bribe you?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
“No, no, this is good. This is great, actually.” He grins. “Maybe getting railed by a gangster is exactly what you needed. Should’ve suggested it months ago.”
I finish my cider and set the empty bottle on the floor beside the couch, too comfortable to get up and throw it away properly.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, closing my eyes and letting my head loll back against the couch. “What time are we meeting up?”
“Around ten? Gives you time to go home and make yourself look slightly less like a domestic violence victim.”
I snort. “Not sure that’s possible at this point.”
“At least change your shirt. That turtleneck is not doing you any favors.”
“It’s hiding the worst of it.”
“Barely,” Wooil says. “But whatever, wear what you want. Maybe the battle damage will attract some attention. You know how omegas get about that protective instinct bullshit.”
I wrinkle my nose at the thought but don’t argue. Let them fuss if they want. I’m in too good a mood to care either way.
“Ten works,” I say, opening one eye to look at Wooil. “But I’m not staying out all night. I need to actually sleep at some point.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead.”
“At the rate I’m going, that’ll be sooner rather than later.”
Wooil raises his bottle in a mock toast. “Here’s to living fast and dying young, I guess.”
I grab my empty bottle and clink it against his. “I’ll drink to that.”
The bass is pounding through the floor when we arrive at the club.
I follow Wooil and the guys through the crowd, weaving between bodies until we claim a booth near the back.
It’s our usual spot, tucked away enough that we can actually hear each other talk but still close enough to the dance floor to watch the chaos unfold.