Chapter Seven #2
Heesung isn't a person to him. He’s a trophy. And right now, the trophy is draping itself all over the one person Sihwan hates most in the world.
A slow, wicked curl of amusement uncoils in the pit of my stomach.
I have absolutely zero interest in Heesung. Being in a relationship with him sounds like a part-time job I didn't apply for. But looking at Sihwan’s face—the sheer, impotent rage radiating off him—I realize I suddenly have a very strong interest in pretending to be interested.
If Sihwan wants the toy, the funniest thing I can possibly do is hold it just out of his reach.
"You know," I say, my voice dropping to a low rumble that I know carries well enough for an Alpha’s hearing. I finally turn my full attention to Heesung, shifting my body so I’m boxing him in against the cushions. "I didn't think so before, but now that you mention it... you might be right."
Heesung’s eyes widen, surprised that the stone wall is finally talking back. He preens, his scent blooming sweeter.
"You have a really... unique perspective," I murmur, the lie sliding off my tongue. I shift my legs, opening my stance just enough to create an invitation. "Tell me more about that."
I don't even know what "that" is. I think he was talking about the aesthetic merits of a handbag, or maybe the geopolitical climate of the French Riviera. It doesn't matter. The bait is in the water.
Heesung’s eyes light up like I just handed him a black card. He takes the opening immediately, shifting his weight until he’s practically pouring himself into the space between my knees. "I knew you’d get it, Donghwa. Most Alphas here are so... basic. They just want to talk about gym stats."
He casts a dismissive glance over his shoulder—right at Sihwan—before turning back to me with a conspiratorial smirk. The irony is delicious.
"You're different," he coos, and then he moves.
Bold. I’ll give him that. He doesn't ask; he just swings a leg over my lap and settles down, straddling my thighs.
The sudden weight is heavy, warm, and smells like a peach orchard caught fire.
His knees bracket my hips, and he leans back slightly, resting his hands on my shoulders to steady himself.
The room seems to freeze. I can feel the collective intake of breath from the people nearby. This is a statement. In the hierarchy of university politics, sitting in a Dominant Alpha’s lap at a party is basically a press release.
I rest my hands loosely on his waist. Not gripping, just resting. Just enough to sell the image.
"Comfortable?" I ask, deadpan.
"Very," Heesung whispers, his eyelids fluttering shut as he leans down.
He doesn't wait for a signal. He just goes for it. His mouth presses against mine, soft and wet and tasting aggressively of strawberry lip gloss. It’s not bad, objectively speaking.
He knows what he’s doing. But to me, it feels like kissing a mannequin.
There’s no spark, no friction, just biology and performance art.
I don't close my eyes.
Instead, I look past the curve of Heesung’s cheek, straight across the room.
Sihwan is watching. Of course he is.
And it is glorious.
The look on his face transcends anger. It’s a total system failure.
His mouth is slightly open, his eyes bugging out like a cartoon character who just watched an anvil drop on his head.
The scent of burnt rum and musk explodes in the room, so acrid and violent it actually drowns out Heesung’s peaches for a second.
He looks like he’s reaching a vibration frequency previously unknown to man, his whole body rigid with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated jealousy.
Heesung makes a small, needy noise in his throat and deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth. It’s sloppy and eager, a little too much teeth, a little too much showmanship. He’s trying to stake a claim.
I let him. I let him explore my mouth, I let his fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, and I don't move an inch.
My chest rumbles, not with a growl, but with a suppressed laugh.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from actually chuckling against Heesung’s lips.
Sihwan looks like he’s about to march over here and challenge me to a duel at dawn.
He takes a step forward, stopped only by one of his friends grabbing his arm, looking concerned.
Come on, I think, staring right into Sihwan’s furious brown eyes as Heesung grinds down into my lap. Come over here. Do something stupid. Make my night.
This is too easy. It’s like playing chess with a pigeon.
Heesung is really selling it, grinding down into my lap with a friction that would probably be enjoyable if I weren't so focused on the audience participation portion of the evening. I decide to give the people what they want. I slide my hands up from Heesung’s waist, splaying my fingers wide over the silk of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric.
I drag my palms up his spine, slow and deliberate, like I’m memorizing the map of his back.
A low, strangled noise erupts from the direction of the bar. I don’t even have to look to know it’s Sihwan. It sounds like someone stepped on a squeaky toy.
Heesung pulls back just an inch, his eyes blown wide and dark, pupils swallowing the iris. The peach scent is suffocating. He thinks he’s winning. He thinks he’s hooked the big fish.
"Let's go," he breathes against my lips, nipping at my bottom lip. "My friend’s room is empty. Down the hall."
He stands up, grabbing my hand and tugging. He’s surprisingly strong for someone who looks like he’s made of porcelain.
I let him pull me up. I uncurl from the sofa with a languid, lazy grace, shaking out my legs.
The room seems to part for us. It’s the power of the pairing: the mysterious Freshman Alpha and the Campus Queen.
It’s the exact visual Sihwan has been masturbating to for weeks, and I’m stealing it right in front of his face.
As Heesung drags me toward the hallway, I pause. Just for a heartbeat.
I turn my head slowly, looking over my shoulder.
Sihwan is frozen by the drinks table. He looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin. His face is a mottled, violent shade of crimson that clashes horribly with his jacket. His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white, and his chest is heaving like he just ran a marathon.
I catch his eye.
I don’t frown. I don’t glare. I just let one corner of my mouth hook up into a smirk. A small, arrogant, I-have-what-you-want smirk.
Checkmate, hyung.
The sheer level of hatred that flares in his eyes is almost artistic. If looks could kill, I’d be a stain on the carpet. I can practically hear his blood pressure spiking. Satisfied, I turn back around and let Heesung lead me into the dark.
We stumble into a bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s piled with coats on the bed and smells faintly of stale beer, but Heesung doesn't care. He kicks the door shut with his heel and immediately spins on me, pressing me back against the wood.
"Finally," he gasps, and his hands are everywhere.
He’s frantic. He’s trying to unzip my jacket while simultaneously shoving his tongue down my throat. It’s messy. It’s uncoordinated. It’s boring.
The thrill of the performance evaporates the second the door clicks shut. Without Sihwan there to witness it, Heesung is just a guy who smells too much like fruit and is trying to climb me like a tree.
He pulls back, breathless, and reaches for the hem of his own shirt. "I've been wanting to do this since orientation," he says, flashing a practiced, seductive smile as he starts to lift the fabric, exposing a sliver of pale, flat stomach.
"Whoa."
I catch his wrists.
I don't grip hard, just enough to stop the motion. My voice is calm, devoid of the heat that was there thirty seconds ago in the living room.
Heesung freezes, his shirt half-raised, looking at me through his lashes. He blinks, confused. "What? Do you want to take it off for me?"
"I'm flattered," I say, and I mean it, sort of. In a detached, anthropological way. "Really. You're beautiful, Heesung."
I gently pull his hands down, smoothing his shirt back into place. I step to the side, putting a polite foot of distance between us. The sudden lack of body heat makes him shiver.
Heesung’s face falls. The seduction mask slips, replaced by a genuine, bewildered pout. "What? Why are you stopping?"
He looks me up and down, searching for a defect. "Wait... are you not into Omegas? I heard a rumor that you might be—"
"No," I interrupt, grinning. I lean back against the doorframe, shoving my hands into my pockets. "I like Omegas just fine. And Betas. And Alphas. I’m an equal opportunity employer."
"Then what is it?" He crosses his arms, looking offended. "Am I not your type?"
"It's not that," I lie smoothly. I tap my temple. "I think that punch had something in it. My head is spinning. If we do this now, I’m probably going to pass out or throw up, and neither of those is a good look for you."
It’s a weak excuse. We both know I’ve been drinking warm Coke all night. But it gives him an out. It saves his ego.
Heesung stares at me, scrutinizing my face. I keep my expression open, apologetic, charming.
"You're serious," he huffs, dropping his arms. He looks annoyed, but not devastated. He’s Heesung; he’s used to getting what he wants eventually. "You're really going to leave me hanging?"
"I'm doing you a favor," I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. A consolation prize. "You deserve my full attention, right? Not me passing out on top of you."
He preens at that. "Well. That’s true."
"Maybe another time," I say, pushing off the door. "Raincheck?"
He sighs, dramatic and long-suffering, but the anger is gone. "Fine. Raincheck. But you owe me, Donghwa."
"Put it on my tab," I say.
I slip out the door before he can change his mind, leaving him in the room with the coats.
The second the door clicks shut, I exhale so hard my lungs burn.
Jesus Christ.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to wipe away the phantom sensation of sticky, sugary lip gloss. The hallway smells like dust and old drywall, and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever smelled in my life.
Being in that room with Heesung was like being trapped inside a scented candle factory during a heatwave.
The peach pheromones were so thick I could practically taste the fuzz on my tongue.
It’s not a bad scent, objectively—if you’re into drowning in fruit syrup—but the sheer density of it was enough to give me a migraine.
It’s desperate. It’s loud. It screams, Look at me, want me, breed me, in a pitch that shatters glass.
I lean back against the wall for a second, tilting my head up to stare at the water-stained ceiling.
I have absolutely zero desire to go back in there.
The thought of actually sleeping with Heesung sounds about as appealing as filing my taxes or sitting through a three-hour lecture on the history of font kerning.
He’s beautiful, sure, in that manufactured, doll-like way that looks great on Instafam and feels like plastic in real life.
But there’s nothing there. No friction. No bite. Just endless, needy compliance.
But then I think about Sihwan’s face.
I think about the way his eyes bugged out, the way his skin turned that violent, blotchy shade of crimson, the way his pheromones spiked into the air like he’d just been set on fire.
A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.
God, that was satisfying.
It’s petty. I know it’s petty. I’m a grown man—technically—and I should be above using a human being as a prop in a pissing contest. But Oh Sihwan makes it so easy.
He’s so fragile, so terrified of losing his spot on the pedestal, that all I have to do is look in the direction of something he wants, and he falls apart.
If pretending to be interested in Heesung is the price of admission for the Oh Sihwan Meltdown Show, then pass me the peaches. I’ll bathe in the stuff if I have to.
I push off the wall, shoving my hands into my pockets. I need fresh air. Real air. Not the recycled sweat and cheap beer fumes of the living room.