Chapter Nine
If there’s one thing I hate more than skipping leg day, it’s being dragged out of my apartment when I’m busy wallowing in a pit of righteous indignation.
"Come on, man. You look like someone kicked your puppy," Seungchan says, practically shoving me toward the elevator. "It’s Joonhyung’s place. You know his dad just bought that penthouse in Gangnam. Open bar. Top shelf."
"I don't care about Joonhyung's dad's money," I grumble, adjusting the collar of my shirt. I do, actually. I care a lot about money. But right now, my ego is bruised, and I’m pretty sure my pheromones smell like burnt rubber and irritation.
"You need to get out of your head. Forget about the freshman," Seungchan says, hitting the button for the top floor.
"I’m not thinking about him," I lie. I’m absolutely thinking about him.
I’m thinking about Kang Donghwa’s stupid dead-eyed stare, his stupid expensive clothes, and the way he walked out of class with Yoon Heesung tucked against his side like a designer clutch.
It’s infuriating. I’m the catch here. Me.
I have the muscles, the smile, the hair that costs more to maintain than most people’s tuition.
Donghwa just looks like he rolled out of bed, put on the first black garment he found, and decided to make everyone else’s life miserable by existing.
The elevator doors slide open, and the bass hits me first. It’s a deep, thumping house track that vibrates right through the soles of my limited-edition sneakers.
"Showtime," Seungchan grins, clapping me on the shoulder.
I take a breath. Right. Showtime.
I shake off the gloom. I’m Oh Sihwan. I’m a junior. I’m a dominant Alpha. I don’t sulk. I conquer. I plaster on my signature grin—the one that usually gets me free drinks—and strut into the apartment.
It’s packed. The air is thick with the underlying sweetness of omegas looking for a good time. It’s a heady mix, and instantly, my spine straightens. This is my natural habitat.
"Sihwan-oppa!"
The call comes from a cluster of sofas near the balcony. I turn, spotting a group of omegas from the dance department. They’re all legs and glitter, waving me over like I’m the guest of honor.
"Go get 'em, tiger," Seungchan laughs, disappearing toward the kitchen.
I saunter over, letting my pheromones bleed out a little. Just a taste. Heavy enough to make heads turn, controlled enough to be inviting. I slide onto the leather sofa, right in the middle of three girls who immediately shift to make room for my shoulders.
"We didn't think you were coming," one of them says, a petite girl with doe eyes and a scent like lilacs. She rests a hand on my forearm, squeezing. "You’ve been so busy lately."
"Just handling business," I say smoothly, leaning back and spreading my arms along the back of the couch. I flex, just a little. The fabric of my shirt tightens. Her eyes drop to my chest. Good. "But I couldn't leave you ladies lonely all night, could I?"
They giggle. It’s a chorus of validation, and god, I needed this.
"Here," another girl says, handing me a red solo cup. "Drink."
I take a sip. It’s terrible—way too sweet—but I wink at her anyway. "Thanks, sweetheart."
For the next twenty minutes, I’m the king again.
I tell stories about the swim team, exaggerating my times just enough to be impressive but not enough to be fact-checked.
I complain about the professors. I let them touch my arms "by accident." The knot of insecurity in my gut starts to loosen. This is how it’s supposed to be. I’m the center of gravity.
When I talk, people listen. When I smile, they blush.
I’m actually starting to enjoy myself. The lilac-scented girl is leaning into my side, her heat radiating through my jeans, and I’m thinking that maybe tonight won’t be a total wash. Maybe I’ll take her home. Maybe I’ll forget all about the hierarchy war and just enjoy being worshipped.
Then, the music dips for a transition, and the front door slams open.
It shouldn't matter. People have been coming and going all night. But the air in the room shifts. It’s subtle at first, a drop in temperature, a sudden stillness that ripples from the entryway inward.
And then the smell reaches me.
It cuts through the humidity of the party. Cold winter air. Sharp ink. Bitter ginseng. It’s not aggressive—it’s not trying to choke anyone out—but it’s so heavy, so undeniably present, that it instantly dampens every other scent in the room.
My smile freezes. The lilac girl stiffens against me, her nose twitching.
"Who is that?" she whispers, her voice breathless. She’s not looking at me anymore.
I follow her gaze, though I already know exactly who I’m going to see.
Of course. Just when I was starting to feel like a god again, the atheist walks in.
Kang Donghwa strolls through the entryway like he owns the building, the mortgage, and the very air we’re all trying to breathe.
He’s wearing another one of those oversized black coats that are ridiculously out of season, looking effortlessly, infuriatingly cool.
But that’s not what makes my molars grind together until I hear a distinct creak in my jaw.
It’s the accessory attached to his hip.
Yoon Heesung is tucked into Donghwa’s side, practically glued there by the heavy, possessive weight of Donghwa’s arm hooked around his waist. The sight douses my good mood like a bucket of ice water.
Heesung looks radiant, glowing under the strobe lights, soaking up the dark, wintry pheromones rolling off the freshman like he’s basking in the sun.
I hate it. I hate everything about it.
"Oh, look! It's Heesungie!" Seungchan yells over the bass, waving his arm like a windmill. Traitor. Absolute traitor.
I stiffen as Donghwa’s eyes scan the room. They slide over the dancing bodies, the drinking games, the desperate hookups, completely uninterested—until they land on me. One corner of his mouth ticks up. It’s barely a smile. It’s a micro-expression of pure, distilled smugness.
He steers Heesung straight toward us.
My pheromones spike, the scent of spiced rum turning sharp and acrid, but it’s useless.
Donghwa’s scent is a heavy, wet blanket of ginseng and cold air that just muffles everything else in its radius.
The lilac girl next to me actually shivers and pulls away slightly, her attention drawn to the new Alpha like a moth to a bug zapper.
"Hey, sunbaes," Heesung chirps, his voice sweet as syrup as they reach our cluster of couches.
"‘Sup," Donghwa says. One word. Low, rumbly, and dismissive. He doesn't even nod at me.
They don't just say hello and move on. No, that would be too merciful. Donghwa drops onto the leather loveseat directly across from me, spreading his long legs wide in a display of casual dominance that makes my eye twitch.
I keep my mouth shut, mostly because if I open it, I’m going to bark something humiliating. I just glare, gripping my red solo cup so hard the plastic starts to buckle under my thumb.
"We were just at the bar downtown," Heesung says, giggling as he looks down at Donghwa. "Donghwa saved me from some creepy old beta."
"Heroic," I deadpan, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown a small village.
Donghwa ignores me. He doesn't even look at me. Instead, he shifts, tapping his thigh. "Sit."
It’s a command. A quiet, arrogant command. And Heesung, the guy who made me chase him for weeks, who played hard to get every time I so much as breathed in his direction, just melts. He drops into Donghwa’s lap like it’s the only seat in the house.
I see red. Actual, physical red spots dancing in my vision.
Donghwa wraps an arm around Heesung’s waist to steady him, his large hand splayed flat against the expensive fabric of Heesung’s shirt.
It’s a claim. A stamp of ownership right in front of my face.
Heesung sighs happily, turning to straddle Donghwa’s thigh a little, and reaches up to weave his slender fingers through Donghwa’s dark hair.
"Your hair is getting long," Heesung murmurs, toying with the strands near Donghwa’s ear.
Donghwa leans back, his head tilting just enough to allow the touch, his eyes half-lidded and bored. But I catch it—that flicker of a glance in my direction. He’s checking. He wants to make sure I’m watching this.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn't even like Heesung. I’ve seen the way he looks at people; he looks at everyone like they’re furniture. But right now, he’s letting the campus idol pet him like a house cat just to prove that he can take what I want without even trying.
My drink crunches loudly in my hand, beer spilling over my knuckles.
"You okay there, Sihwan?" Seungchan asks, leaning in, his voice full of confused concern. "You’re looking a little... veiny."
"I’m fantastic," I hiss, not breaking eye contact with Donghwa. "Never been better."
I can only watch a train wreck for so long before I have to look away, or in this case, before I have to physically remove myself from the blast zone to keep from flipping a table.
Heesung is practically purring, rubbing his cheek against the shoulder of Donghwa’s coat like a cat marking territory.
And Donghwa? He’s just sitting there, looking like a bored emperor tolerating a concubine, occasionally flicking those dark eyes toward me to make sure I’m witnessing my own social execution.
"I need air," I snap, standing up so fast my knees hit the coffee table. The drinks wobble.
"You just got here," Seungchan protests, a half-eaten slider in his mouth.
"And now I'm leaving. Don't wait up."
I don't wait for a response. I turn on my heel and march away from the couches, shoving past a couple making out against the wall. I need out. I need silence. I need to punch something soft, like a pillow or maybe Donghwa’s face.