Chapter Nine #2
I make it to the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, the thumping bass of the living room dulling to a muffled vibration in the floorboards. It’s cooler here, away from the body heat of fifty sweaty students, but I’m still burning up. My skin feels too tight.
I pace a tight circle on the rug, running a hand through my hair. It’s the disrespect. That’s what gets me. If he actually liked Heesung, I could almost—almost—respect the hustle. But he doesn't. He’s playing with his food just to starve me out. It’s petty. It’s childish.
It’s exactly something I would do, which makes it infinitely more annoying when someone does it to me.
"Stupid, arrogant, trust-fund baby," I mutter, kicking at the baseboard. "Think you're so cool with your gap year and your stupid motorcycle."
I stop, leaning back against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. I need to calm down. My pheromones are probably stripping the paint off the walls right now. Spiced rum and scorched earth. Great. I smell like a pirate ship on fire.
Movement flickers in my peripheral vision.
My eyes snap open.
Down the hall, emerging from the living room chaos, is a tall, dark figure. Donghwa. He’s alone. No Heesung attached to his hip. He’s walking with that loose-limbed, lazy stride of his, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, head tilted back like he’s examining the crown molding.
He looks so peaceful. So unbothered.
The rage flares up again, hot and instant, bypassing my brain entirely.
He’s coming this way, probably heading for the bathroom or maybe just looking for a quiet place to be pretentious in private. He doesn't see me yet—I’m tucked in the shadows of a doorframe.
I don't think. I don't plan. I just react.
I step back into the empty guest room behind me, leaving the door cracked. I wait. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a war drum.
One step. Two steps.
I see the black fabric of his coat pass the gap.
Now.
I lunge.
I reach out, grabbing a fistful of his expensive wool coat and the shirt beneath it. I yank hard.
Donghwa stumbles, letting out a sharp huff of air as I drag him into the dark room. He’s heavier than he looks—dense muscle under all those layers—but I have the element of surprise and the hysterical strength of a bruised ego.
I spin him around and shove him back, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make a point. Then I slam the door shut with my foot, the lock clicking into place.
I slam him back against the wall.
It makes a satisfying thud, the sound of a large body hitting drywall. The room is dark, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds, slicing stripes of orange across the floor.
I’m breathing hard, my chest heaving, adrenaline flooding my system like jet fuel. I’m close enough to count his eyelashes, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
Donghwa doesn’t even blink. He doesn't shove me back. He doesn't swing. He just looks down at me—because of course, he has to look down—with that same infuriatingly bored expression, like I’m a minor inconvenience, like a fly buzzing around his head.
"Is there a problem, hyung?" he asks. His voice is calm. Too calm.
"Yes, there is a fucking problem," I snarl, tightening my grip on his coat. I want to shake him. I want to wipe that look off his face. "You need to back off. Leave Heesung alone."
Donghwa’s mouth quirks up at the corner. A smirk. A genuine, mocking smirk.
"Pretty sure he came to me," he says, his voice low and rumbly in the quiet room. "I was just sitting there."
"I don't care," I snap, stepping into his space until our chests are almost brushing. My heart is hammering against my ribs, loud enough that I’m worried he can hear it.
"I saw him first. I’ve been working on this since the semester started.
You don't just get to walk in here with your moody act and steal him. Get in line."
Donghwa actually snorts. It’s a dismissive, ugly sound that makes my blood boil.
"Get in line?" He shakes his head, looking amused. "It’s not a deli counter, Sihwan. And it’s hardly my fault if an eager omega decides to throw himself at me. Maybe he just likes the view better over here."
"You’re doing it on purpose," I accuse, my voice rising. "You don't even like him. You’re just doing it to piss me off."
"Maybe," he admits easily. "It’s working, isn't it?"
I see red. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. "This is your last warning, Kang Donghwa. Back. Off."
I let go of the leash on my pheromones. I flood the small room with them—heavy, aggressive waves of spiced rum and musk.
It’s a dominance display, pure and simple.
I want to choke him with it. I want him to cough, to flinch, to turn his head away in submission.
It’s the scent of a threat, thick and cloying, scorching the air between us.
But he doesn't flinch.
Instead, Donghwa’s eyes darken. His nostrils flare slightly, inhaling the scent deep into his lungs. He doesn't look intimidated. He looks... interested.
He leans down, just an inch, invading my personal space. The smell of winter air and ink rolls off him, cutting right through my heavy musk.
"You're loud," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my mouth before flicking back up to my eyes. One of his eyebrows arches, a challenge written in the sharp angle of it. "If you're such a big, bad dominant Alpha... shouldn't you be able to subdue him on your own?"
He tilts his head, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper.
"Why are you so worried about me, Sihwan? Unless you think you can't compete."
"I would have him wrapped around my finger by now if you would stop distracting him," I hiss, my voice tight. "It’s hard to work when there’s a gloomy cloud hovering over the entire department."
Donghwa just hums, a low vibration in his chest that I can feel through the layers of our clothes. He doesn't look threatened. He looks like he's solving a particularly boring math problem.
"So you're admitting it," he says, his voice smooth, sliding under my defenses. "You're admitting that my presence alone is enough to derail your game. That I'm the better Alpha."
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. It echoes harshly in the small room.
"You're delusional," I spit, leaning in until our noses are almost touching. I have to tilt my head back slightly to look him in the eye, and I hate it. I hate that he’s taller. "You think you’re special? You think this whole 'I’m too cool to care' act is actually working? It’s a novelty, Donghwa. They’re bored, and you’re the shiny new toy.
Give it a month. They’ll realize you have the personality of a wet rag, and they’ll come running back to the real thing. "
Donghwa’s expression doesn't change, but his eyes gleam in the semi-darkness.
"Are you sure about that, hyung?" he asks softly. "Or maybe it’s just... a lack of appeal on your part."
My eye twitches. "Excuse me?"
"Maybe you’re not as dominant as you think you are," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper that scrapes against my nerves.
He leans down, sniffing the air near my neck, and wrinkles his nose.
"Maybe all those boosters you wear are just false advertising.
Maybe your pheromones just aren't strong enough to keep anyone interested. "
The accusation hits me like a slap. He knows. Somehow, this arrogant freshman knows about the boosters.
"Shut up," I growl, slamming my forearm against his chest, pinning him harder against the wall. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" He smirks, lazy and infuriating. "You're trying so hard, Sihwan. It's exhausting just watching you."
"I could have anyone I want," I snarl, my control snapping like a dry twig. The rum scent pouring off me turns acrid, heavy with aggression. "I could walk out there and take Heesung right now. I could take anyone in this room."
I grab his lapels, jerking him forward.
"I could even have you," I threaten, the words tumbling out before I can filter them. "If I wanted to. I could use my pheromones to force you down right here. I could make you submit just to prove a point."
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with tension and the clashing scents of two Alphas who want to tear each other apart.
Donghwa stares at me. For a second, I think I’ve actually shocked him. I think I’ve won.
Then, he laughs.
It’s a dark, breathy sound. "I bet you couldn't."
My grip tightens on his coat. "Is that a challenge?"
"It's a fact," Donghwa says, his eyes boring into mine, dark pits of ink. "You're all talk, Sihwan. You'd probably just be... disappointing."
He tilts his head, exposing the column of his throat in a mocking gesture of submission that is anything but submissive.
"I doubt you even have the nerve to try."
Something inside me breaks. The rational part of my brain—the part that cares about consequences and social standing—shuts off completely. All that’s left is the instinct, the roar of a challenged Alpha, and the desperate, burning need to wipe that smug look off his face.
"Watch me," I breathe.
I shove him back against the drywall, the impact rattling the frame of the window. I don't give him time to react. I don't give him time to breathe. I flood the space with my scent, pushing it to the max, demanding obedience, demanding submission.
I grab his jaw, my fingers digging into his cheeks, and I crash my mouth onto his.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s an attack. I press into him, grinding my lips against his, trying to use the sheer force of my will to crush him, to make him buckle, to make him realize exactly who he’s messing with. I want him to freeze. I want him to panic. I want to feel him crumble.
I expect violence. I expect a fist to the gut, a knee to the groin, or at the very least, for him to shove me off and laugh in my face again. I’m bracing for impact, my muscles coiled tight, ready to fight him off when he inevitably snaps.
But he doesn't snap.