Chapter Six #2
Donghwa leans back, draping an arm over the back of his chair, looking relaxed and open. He chats with her, nodding at whatever inane thing she’s saying. And then, he does it.
He looks up, straight over Eunji’s head, and locks eyes with me.
His expression is pure smugness. He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from the fawning Omega to me, and back again. The message is loud and clear: I can take this too. I can take all of it.
It happens again in the hallway. A group of Omegas surrounds him, asking about his notes.
I’m standing by the classroom door, grinding my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
Donghwa catches my eye through the crowd. He winks. He actually winks at me.
My scent is souring, turning acrid with jealousy and irritation. It’s not that I want him—gods no—but he’s encroaching on my territory. I’m the Campus King. I’m the one they’re supposed to be squealing over.
"You okay, Sihwan?" Seungchan asks, backing away slightly. "You smell like you're about to murder someone."
"I'm fine," I snap. "I'm just great."
I look down the hall. Heesung is there, leaning against the wall, watching Donghwa hold court with a thoughtful expression. Heesung isn't looking at me. No one is looking at me.
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to strangle that smug, winter-scented, grape-throwing bastard with his own turtleneck.
"Bro, you’re going to pop a vein."
I rack the barbell with a clang that echoes through the university gym. It’s Friday night, the place is empty, and I’m benching my body weight plus twenty kilos just to burn off the residual irritation of seeing Kang Donghwa wink at me.
I sit up, wiping sweat from my forehead with the hem of my shirt. "I’m fine."
"You smell like burnt toast and murder," Seungchan points out helpfully, handing me a water bottle. He’s looming over the bench, looking like a confused grizzly bear in a stringer tank top. "Seriously, Sihwan. You need to chill. You’re letting the freshman live rent-free in your head."
I chug the water, crushing the plastic bottle in my grip. "He threw a grape at me, Seungchan. A grape. In public."
Seungchan scratches his head. "Yeah, that was... weird. But hey, listen. Jiah from the Theater department is throwing a party tomorrow. Her parents are out of town, huge apartment in Gangnam. Everyone’s going."
I pause. A party.
A party means alcohol. It means loud music.
But most importantly, it means a controlled environment where I am the undisputed main character.
No professors to fawn over Donghwa’s 'artistic vision.
' No soccer fields for him to tackle me on.
Just social dynamics, which is the one game I know I can win.
"Is Heesung going?" I ask.
"Probably," Seungchan shrugs. "He goes to everything."
I grin, tossing the crushed bottle into the recycling bin from three meters away. Nothing but net.
"Pick me up at eight," I say, hopping off the bench. "I need to pick out an outfit that says 'I own this school' and 'I’m casually approachable' at the same time."
By Saturday night, I am a masterpiece.
I spend an hour on my hair alone, teasing the chestnut strands until they look perfectly windblown.
I chose a black silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show off the definition of my pecs, and tight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination.
I spritz on my cologne, layering it over my natural scent until I smell like a walking aphrodisiac.
"You ready, boss?" Seungchan asks when I slide into his car. He’s wearing a t-shirt that is struggling to contain his biceps.
"Born ready."
We pull up to the apartment complex a little after ten. It’s one of those high-end places with a doorman, but the bass is already thumping so hard I can feel it in the pavement.
We head up. The elevator opens directly into chaos.
The air is thick, a humid soup of cheap beer, expensive perfume, and the mingling pheromones of fifty different students. The lights are dim, pulsing with the beat of some generic EDM track that I pretend to hate but secretly love.
"Showtime," I mutter.
I step out of the elevator, Seungchan flanking me like my personal bodyguard. I don't just walk in; I make an entrance. I roll my shoulders back, expand my chest, and let my scent flood the entryway.
Heads turn.
"Sihwan-oppa!" a chorus of voices rings out from the kitchen island.
I smirk, the tension of the week instantly evaporating. This is it. This is the drug. The eyes, the whispers, the way the crowd naturally parts to let me through. I high-five a guy from the soccer team, wink at a Beta girl holding a red cup, and soak it all in.
"Drinks?" Seungchan yells over the bass.
"Vodka," I yell back. "And keep 'em coming."
I lean against the wall, posing, letting the adoration wash over me. For the first time in a week, the air doesn't smell like winter and ink. It smells like victory.
"Looking good, Sihwan," someone purrs.
I turn to see a cute Omega from my marketing class. I flash the smile. "Just trying to keep up with you, babe."
Yeah. I’m back. The King is in the building, and absolutely nothing is going to ruin my night.
The vodka tastes like straight paint stripper, but after the third shot, I stop caring.
The bass drops, vibrating through the floorboards and straight up my spine. I’m on the makeshift dance floor in the living room, surrounded by a sea of bodies. Two Omegas from the Art History department are grinding close to me, their sweet, floral scents mixing with the heavy musk of my cologne.
I don’t even know their names. It doesn’t matter.
I hook a hand around one’s waist, spinning him out and pulling him back in.
He giggles, looking up at me with those wide, dilated eyes that scream Alpha.
I smirk, letting my pheromones roll off me in thick, heavy waves.
This is easy. This is natural. I am the sun, and they are just little planets caught in my gravity.
"You're on fire tonight, Sihwan!" someone shouts over the music.
"I'm always on fire!" I shout back, throwing my head back and laughing.
After another twenty minutes of being the center of the universe, I’m sweating.
But it’s a good sweat—the kind that makes my skin glisten under the strobe lights, highlighting the definition of my arms. I extricate myself from the dance floor, leaving the Omegas looking disappointed, and swagger over to the plush sectional where Seungchan is holding court.
"King returns!" Seungchan bellows, shoving a red solo cup into my hand. "Drink up, bro. You look thirsty."
I collapse onto the leather sofa, spreading my legs wide, taking up as much space as physically possible. I down half the drink in one go. It’s warm beer. Disgusting. I love it.
"This party is legendary," I declare, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Did you see that guy from the swim team? He wouldn't even look me in the eye. Knows his place."
Seungchan nods enthusiastically, though I’m pretty sure he’s just watching a fly buzz around the ceiling light. "Totally. You're huge, man. Intimidating."
I lean back, feeling the leather creak under my bulk. I scan the room, my gaze drifting over the crowded apartment like a lion surveying the savannah. I’m looking for familiar faces, for people to wave at me, for Heesung.
Especially Heesung.
I haven't seen the pretty Omega since we got here. I figure he’s probably in the kitchen, or maybe the bathroom, fixing his perfect hair. I fantasize about him walking in, spotting me looking like a devastatingly handsome deity on this couch, and finally realizing what he’s been missing.
My gaze slides past the kitchen island. Past the balcony doors. And lands on the dark corner near the bookshelf.
My heart does a weird, stuttering flop in my chest.
There’s a loveseat tucked away from the main chaos. And sitting there, looking like a gothic gargoyle that someone dressed in expensive streetwear, is Kang Donghwa.
He’s holding a tumbler of something amber—probably whiskey he brought himself because he’s too pretentious for keg beer. He looks bored. His legs are crossed at the ankle, his expression blank as he watches the room.
But he’s not alone.
Perched on the armrest of the loveseat, leaning in so close that their thighs are brushing, is Yoon Heesung.
I freeze. The solo cup crunches in my grip.
Heesung is laughing at something. His head is tilted back, exposing the long, pale column of his throat. He looks radiant. Ethereal. And he is focusing every ounce of that high-wattage charm on the human equivalent of a raincloud.
"No way," I mutter.
Heesung lifts a hand. His slender fingers, adorned with delicate silver rings, reach out. He touches Donghwa.
He doesn't just touch him. He trails a finger down the side of Donghwa’s neck, tracing the line of the tendon, lingering near the collar of that stupid black shirt.
It’s a bold move. It’s a flirtatious move. It’s the kind of move you make when you want an Alpha to bite you.
And Donghwa?
The bastard doesn't pull away. He doesn't scowl. He just turns his head slightly, saying something low that makes Heesung cover his mouth and giggle. Donghwa’s dark eyes are fixed on Heesung’s face, and for a second, I see a flicker of a smirk on his lips.
My vision actually goes red. Like, cartoon red.
The rage hits me so fast I nearly choke on my own spit. It’s a hot, acidic wave that starts in my gut and burns its way up to my throat.
Heesung is touching him.
Heesung, who politely declined my offer to walk him to class. Heesung, who barely reacts when I flex in his direction. Heesung is draping himself over the guy who takes pictures of trash and thinks smiling is a sign of weakness.
"Are you seeing this?" I hiss, slamming my cup down on the coffee table. Beer sloshes over the rim.
Seungchan jumps, looking around wildly. "What? Cops? Is it the cops?"
"No, you idiot! Look!" I jab a finger toward the corner. "Look at that traitor!"
Seungchan squints. "Oh. Is that the freshman? And Heesung? Wow, they look cozy."
"They do not look cozy!" I snap, my voice rising an octave. "Heesung looks... confused! He’s probably trying to check Donghwa for a pulse! Look at him, he’s practically comatose!"
But I know I’m lying. Heesung doesn't look confused. He looks enchanted. He looks like he’s trying to climb into Donghwa’s lap.
And Donghwa is letting him. He’s sitting there, soaking up the attention that belongs to me, looking smugly content with his stolen prize.
The scent of winter air and ink drifts across the room, cutting through the stale beer and sweat. It’s faint, but to my nose, it’s like a slap in the face. It’s a challenge.
Oh, it is on. It is so on.