Chapter Ten #2
His expression is unreadable—that stoic, bored mask he always wears. But then, the corner of his mouth ticks up. Just a millimeter. A microscopic smirk.
Heat floods my face. It’s instantaneous and humiliating. I feel the blush crawl up my neck, right over the bite mark, turning my ears burning hot. I tear my gaze away, staring aggressively at the back of the head of the girl in front of me.
Don't look at him. Don't acknowledge him.
But I can still feel him. It’s like static electricity in the air.
And the worst part? The absolute, rock-bottom worst part?
My dick twitches.
Just from the eye contact. Just from the memory that flashes, unbidden, into my brain—the sound of his voice, that deep, scratchy rasp in my ear. “Relax, hyung.”
My hands curl into fists on the desk. I hate him. I hate him so much I could scream. I hate that he’s sitting there looking like a prince while I’m huddled in a hoodie trying not to cry from the friction of my own underwear.
But my body remembers the weight of him.
The heavy, crushing pressure of his hips.
The way his hands pinned my wrists. A shiver racks through me, hot and shameful.
It’s a biological betrayal. My inner Alpha should be raging, demanding blood for the insult.
Instead, it’s cowering, confused, vibrating with this sick, residual heat that hasn't left me since I limped out of that apartment.
The lecture drags on for a thousand years. I don't hear a word of it. I just sit there, sweating in my hoodie, hyper-aware of every shift of fabric, every throb of the mark on my shoulder, every breath I take that smells like him.
Finally, the professor dismisses the class.
The second the words "read chapter four" leave his mouth, I’m moving.
I grab my bag, ignoring the sharp protest in my lower back. I don't wait for my friends. I don't look for Heesung. I definitely don't look toward the middle row.
I bolt.
I weave through the crowd of students clogging the aisle, practically shoving a sophomore out of my way. I need air. I need distance. I need to get far enough away that the scent of winter air fades and I can stop feeling like I’m about to either punch someone or fall to my knees.
"Sihwan, wait up!" someone calls—Seungchan, probably.
I don't stop. I hit the door and burst into the hallway, walking as fast as my battered body will allow, desperate to outrun the heat crawling under my skin.
My life has become a stealth mission. I am no longer Oh Sihwan, Campus King and heir to the Oh! Paradise fortune. I am a rat. A scurrying, paranoid, hoodie-wearing rat trying to navigate a maze without getting eaten by the snake that is Kang Donghwa.
I spend the rest of the afternoon dodging shadows.
Every time I see a flash of black hair, my heart tries to punch its way out of my ribcage.
I dive into a stairwell when I see a figure that looks vaguely like him near the library.
I take the long way to the vending machines—the ones in the basement that smell like mildew—just to avoid the main canteen.
At one point, someone yells "Hey!" from down the hall.
I flinch so hard I smack my elbow against a locker, hissing in pain as I scramble around a corner, heart hammering.
It turns out to be some random sophomore calling his friend, but the adrenaline dump leaves me leaning against the wall, wheezing like I just ran a marathon.
This is humiliating. I built this reputation brick by brick. I am the guy who walks down the center of the hallway. I am the guy people move for. Now I’m skirting the edges like a freshman with a bad haircut.
And then, the inevitable happens. The clock hits 4:00 PM.
Swim practice.
Fuck.
I stand outside the locker room doors, staring at the handle like it’s made of radioactive waste. The smell of chlorine seeps out, usually a scent that pumps me up—the smell of victory, of my best event. Today, it smells like exposure.
I can’t skip. Coach is already on my ass about "focus" after I tanked the last meet because I was too busy winking at the stands. If I bail today, he’ll bench me. But if I go in there…
I look down at my chest. Under the gray hoodie, under the t-shirt, is the Mark of Shame.
The bite. It’s purple, angry, and undeniable.
And swim trunks? Speedos? They hide nothing.
If I walk out onto that pool deck, everyone is going to see the bruises on my hips.
They’re going to see the teeth marks on my shoulder.
And in a locker room full of Alphas, they’ll know exactly what that means.
I swallow hard, my throat clicking dryly, and push the door open.
The humidity hits me instantly, thick and warm. The sound of lockers slamming and guys shouting echoes off the tile. It’s a meat market in here. Naked backs, towels snapping, the heavy, competitive scent of Alpha pheromones mixing with the chemical tang of the pool.
I keep my head down, clutching my gym bag to my chest like a shield. I shuffle to my usual spot in the corner, praying for invisibility.
"Yo! Sihwan!"
I cringe. Seungchan. Of course.
I look up to see my best friend beaming at me from three lockers down. He’s already stripped down to his briefs, a mountain of tan muscle and zero self-awareness. He waves a towel at me, grinning.
"Thought you weren't coming, man! You’re late. Coach is gonna make us do laps until we puke."
"Yeah," I croak. My voice sounds wrecked. I clear my throat, trying to inject some of my usual swagger into it, but it falls flat. "Yeah, got held up."
I set my bag on the bench. I don't open it. I just stand there, hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie, staring at the metal vents of my locker.
Around me, the rest of the team is changing. Shirts are coming off. Pants are dropping. It’s a sea of skin. Usually, I’m the first one naked. I love showing off the definition in my lats, the cut of my abs. I live for the envious glances from the scrawnier guys.
Today, the thought of taking my clothes off makes me want to hyperventilate.
Seungchan slams his locker shut and turns to me, frowning slightly. He tilts his head, his golden-retriever brain processing the anomaly.
"Bro? You good?" He steps closer, his voice dropping a little. "You’re still in your street clothes. We gotta be on deck in five."
I take a step back, instinctively protecting my personal space. "I know. I’m just…"
I scramble for a lie. My brain is firing blanks. I have a rash? I joined a cult that forbids nudity?
"Something’s off," Seungchan says, sniffing the air. His nose wrinkles. "You smell… weird. Like you’re wearing way too much cologne. Like, snow or something."
My blood runs cold. I must have bathed in scent blockers this morning, sprayed half a bottle of 'Midnight Storm' over myself, but apparently, Donghwa’s scent is nuclear-grade. It’s clinging to me like a curse.
"It's a new body spray," I snap, too quickly. "Trying something different. Whatever."
Seungchan looks unconvinced. He reaches out, his big hand going for my shoulder—the exact shoulder where the bite mark is throbbing.
"Whoa, relax," he laughs, going to clap me on the back.
I dodge. I literally twist my body away like he’s coming at me with a knife, stumbling into the bench behind me. A jolt of pain shoots through my lower back, sharp and electric. I gasp, doubling over slightly, hand flying to my hip.
"Fuck!" The word tears out of me before I can stop it.
Seungchan freezes, hand hovering in the air. The locker room chatter dies down a little. A few guys look over.
"Sihwan?" Seungchan’s eyes are wide now, concern replacing the confusion. "Dude, are you hurt?"
I straighten up, forcing a grimace into a smile. I’m sweating. I can feel beads of it rolling down my spine under the hoodie.
"No," I lie through my teeth. "Just… cramped up. Slept wrong. My neck is killing me."
I wave a hand dismissively, trying to look casual while leaning heavily against the lockers for support.
"Look, you guys go ahead," I say, breathless. "I’m… I’m feeling a little under the weather. Stomach bug or something. I just need a minute to catch my breath before I change. I don't want to puke in the pool."
Seungchan studies me. He knows me. He knows I never miss a chance to strut. But he also sees the pale sheen of sweat on my forehead and the way I’m guarding my body.
"You look like shit, honestly," he says bluntly. "You want me to tell Coach you’re sitting out?"
"No!" I panic. If I sit out, questions get asked. "No, just… go. I’ll catch up. I just need to sit here for a second. Seriously, Seungchan, go. You’re blocking my air."
He hesitates for another second, then shrugs. "Alright, man. Don't die in here."
He grabs his goggles and heads for the pool deck, the rest of the team following him out. The heavy door swings shut, cutting off the noise, leaving me alone in the sudden, damp silence.
I sag against the cold metal of the lockers, sliding down until I’m sitting on the bench. I bury my face in my hands. My hands are shaking.
The silence in the locker room is heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thwack-splash of bodies hitting the water in the natatorium. I wait a full two minutes, staring at the second hand on the wall clock, just to be absolutely sure no one is coming back for a forgotten nose clip or a towel.
When the coast is finally clear, I let out a breath that shudders in my chest.
"Okay," I whisper to the empty room. "Operation Don't-Look-Like-You-Got-Railed is a go."
I reach for the hem of my hoodie. Lifting my arms is a mistake. A sharp, tearing sensation rips through my shoulder, and my lower back seizes up in protest. I hiss through my teeth, moving with the grace of a rusted hinge, peeling the fabric up and over my head.
The cool air of the locker room hits my skin, and I flinch. I turn toward the full-length mirror at the end of the row, and immediately wish I hadn't.
It’s a crime scene.