6. Chapter 6
Ispend the next few days trying to convince myself I’m overreacting.
Suha was in the middle of a rut. His brain was flooded with hormones, his control completely shot.
There’s no way he was paying attention to anything beyond the immediate need to fuck and knot and dominate.
I was just a convenient body, a challenge that happened to wander into his territory at the right time.
Or wrong time, depending on how you look at it.
The bond probably didn’t even take on his end.
Sometimes it happens like that—one person bonds while the other doesn’t, especially if they’re not paying attention or don’t want it.
And Suha definitely didn’t want it. Why would he?
A big rich mobster alpha bonding with some random alpha who broke into his hotel room? It’s absurd.
I tell myself this while I’m at the gym, pounding away at the heavy bag until my knuckles ache even through the wraps.
The repetitive motion helps quiet my brain, the impact jarring through my arms and into my shoulders with each hit.
Left jab, right cross, left hook. Again.
Again. The bruises from my night with Suha have faded to yellowish-green splotches across my ribs and hips, the bite marks on my shoulders mostly healed over into pink scars.
Except for the big, deep one on my shoulder, which has now healed into a permanent ring of scar tissue that screams bonded. No big deal.
I tell myself this while I’m sprawled on Wooil’s couch, controller in hand as we play some mindless racing game. He keeps beating me because I can’t focus, my thoughts drifting back to that hotel suite, to the overwhelming weight of Suha’s pheromones, the way his teeth felt sinking into my neck.
I tell myself this while I’m at the ring, circling one of Hansol’s other fighters in the practice area.
The guy’s good, quick on his feet, and he manages to land a solid hit to my jaw that makes my ears ring.
I grin and spit blood, then dive back in.
The pain helps. It always does. Gives me something concrete to focus on instead of the anxiety gnawing at my gut.
I tell myself this while I’m smoking on the roof of my latest apartment building with a couple of friends from the neighborhood.
They’re talking about some drama with one of their girlfriends, and I’m only half-listening, watching the sun set over Seoul’s skyline.
The city looks almost pretty from up here, all the grime and desperation hidden by distance and fading light.
Days pass. Four, then five, then a week. Nothing happens.
No phone calls from unknown numbers. No mysterious cars following me through the streets.
No thugs in expensive suits showing up to drag me to some warehouse for a “conversation.” My apartment remains undisturbed, my routine uninterrupted.
I go to the gym, hang out with friends, take fights at the ring, avoid Taewoo’s loan sharks. Normal life.
The anxiety starts to ease. See? I was worried over nothing.
Suha doesn’t know, doesn’t care, has probably already forgotten I exist. The bond is one-sided, which sucks for me but at least means I’m not in danger of being murdered by an angry mobster who didn’t consent to being tied to some nobody alpha.
I can work with this. Next month when his rut comes around, I’ll find him again, get another round of what I need.
Maybe over time he’ll get used to me, we can establish some kind of arrangement.
He gets a willing partner who can actually handle him during his rut, I get the only alpha in Seoul strong enough to dominate me properly. Win-win.
After my friends and I finish a late lunch at a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop, I head home through my usual route, hands shoved in my pockets, thinking idly about a new series Wooil says he pirated and wants me to watch with him.
Something about a time-traveling detective, which sounds either amazing or terrible depending on the execution.
I’m debating whether to stop by the pawn shop or just go crash at my current apartment when I turn down a familiar alley.
I only make it a few steps before the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
The feeling makes me tense up—that primal instinct that says predator nearby, danger, run.
I turn my head, and my stomach drops straight through the pavement.
A large party of very large, very intimidating men is hurrying down the alley after me.
At least six of them, all built like brick walls, all moving with the kind of coordination that tells me immediately they’re professional muscle.
These aren’t loan sharks. Loan sharks are sloppy, desperate, easy to lose in the maze of Seoul’s back alleys.
These guys move like trained soldiers, spreading out to cut off potential escape routes, their faces blank and focused.
They’re not shouting threats or waving weapons around—they’re just moving, silent and purposeful, and somehow that’s infinitely more terrifying.
And I know absolutely my time has run out because these guys have to have one big bad boss. I have no doubt who.
Fuck. Suha knows. He knows we’re bonded, and he’s pissed.
My muscles coil tight before I even think it through, my instincts honed from years of narrow escapes kicking in before conscious thought.
The second I recognize those focused, hunt-like movements, I’m already moving, pivoting on the balls of my feet and launching myself down the alleyway like a fucking bullet.
Concrete slams against my worn-out sneakers with each pounding stride, adrenaline sharpening my vision until the neon smear of the city narrows to tunnel focus.
Every sound crystallizes—the distant honk of traffic, the rhythmic slap of my own breathing, and underneath it all, the terrifyingly synchronized footfalls of six pairs of expensive leather shoes eating up pavement behind me.
I take a hard right without slowing, fingers scraping against damp brick as I use the wall to pivot, then launch myself at a chain-link fence.
The metal rattles violently under my weight as I scramble over, catching my sleeve on a jagged edge that tears through fabric and skin alike.
Doesn’t matter. Blood beads hot along my forearm as I drop into the narrow gap between buildings, sneakers skidding through something foul-smelling before I find traction again.
Behind me comes the crisp staccato of shouted commands—no wasted words, just tactical jargon that makes my stomach twist. These aren’t Kang Taewoo’s sweaty goons screaming empty threats; this is a fucking extraction team.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so fucking fucked.
Every alleyway, every shortcut I’ve memorized over years of midnight sprints gets deployed like chess moves—ducking beneath a half-raised security gate here, shouldering through a loose board in a construction fence there.
The burn in my lungs feels good, familiar, the same exhilarating terror as staring down an opponent twice my size in the ring.
Except this time I’m not getting paid, and the consequences involve more than just a broken nose.
They’re herding me. The realization sinks in when I double back toward Myeongdong only to find two suits materializing from a side passage. No panic, no hesitation—just methodical repositioning that funnels me northeast toward the river.
I skid around a corner, shoes sliding through rancid puddle water, and nearly eat shit when my heel catches on a cracked tile. The stumble costs me precious seconds—long enough to hear the rustle of tailored wool getting closer, to smell the faint bergamot and gun oil clinging to expensive suits.
I run harder, lungs screaming in protest as I push my body past the comfortable burn.
My breath comes in gasps that taste like copper and exhaust fumes, each inhale scraping against my throat.
The familiar streets blur past. Dumpsters I’ve hidden behind, fire escapes I’ve climbed, shortcuts I’ve used a hundred times to shake Taewoo’s thugs.
But this isn’t like those times. This is different.
I vault over a stack of crates in a delivery alley, sneakers barely finding purchase on the slick cardboard before I’m launching myself forward again.
Behind me, I hear the coordinated shuffle of feet, the crackle of what might be a radio.
They’re not even breathing hard. Not shouting. Just... following. Relentless.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my teeth. Genuine fear floods my system, cold and acidic, cutting through the usual thrill I get from a good chase. Because I know exactly who sent these guys. I know what happens when you piss off someone like Yoon Suha.
And I didn’t just piss Suha off.
I take a sharp left, fingers scraping against rough brick as I use the wall to pivot, then immediately duck right into a narrow passage between two buildings.
Can’t slow down. The passage opens onto a small courtyard, and I scan frantically for an exit—there, a gap in the fence, partially hidden by overgrown weeds.
I dive for it, squeezing through the opening with zero grace, metal scraping against my back hard enough to draw blood through my shirt.
My feet hit pavement on the other side, and I’m running again before I’ve fully straightened up, nearly colliding with a woman carrying groceries.
She shouts something after me, but I’m already gone, cutting through a parking garage and out the other side.
They’re still behind me. I can feel them, sense their presence like pressure against my spine.
Every time I think I’ve lost them, I catch a glimpse of dark suits rounding a corner, or hear the echo of footsteps that match my pace too perfectly.
Each turn I take, each alley I choose. They’re not trying to catch me, they’re guiding me.
Cutting off exits, forcing me in a specific direction.