Chapter Ten #3
My torso, usually my pride and joy, looks like a map of bad decisions.
There are faint, reddish friction burns on my knees.
My hips—fuck, my hips—have distinct, dark smudges on the sides where Donghwa’s fingers dug in to hold me in place.
They look like shadows in the dim light, but under the harsh glare of the pool deck? They’re going to scream handled.
But the pièce de résistance is the shoulder.
I twist my neck, wincing as the movement pulls at the skin.
The bite mark is a masterpiece of violence.
Purple, blue, and angry red, the individual puncture marks of his teeth clearly visible in the center of the bruising.
It’s tribal. It’s possessive. It’s a neon sign that says Property of Kang Donghwa.
"Stupid," I mutter, glaring at my own reflection. "You absolute, colossal moron."
I was so desperate to prove I was the top dog.
I had to push him. I had to drag him into that room.
I had to start a pheromone pissing contest with a guy whose scent alone could probably knock out a horse.
And now look at me. I’m standing in my underwear, trembling because my legs feel like jelly, staring at a claiming bite that I—an Alpha—am sporting.
If anyone sees that, I’m dead. My reputation won’t just take a hit; it’ll be incinerated. The Campus King, knotted and bitten like a common omega in heat? I’d have to transfer. Maybe to a different planet.
I scramble for my gym bag, digging through the side pocket where I keep my emergency kit. Goggles, spare cap, ear drops… yes.
I pull out a box of large, waterproof bandages. The heavy-duty kind meant for scraping yourself on the pool wall. I rip the packaging open with my teeth, my hands shaking slightly.
I slap the bandage over the bite mark. It’s big, beige, and ugly, but it covers the teeth marks.
Now it just looks like I have a weird injury.
A muscle strain? A boil? A chemical burn?
Literally anything is better than the truth.
I press the adhesive down hard, wincing as it sticks to the tender skin.
"Shoulder strain," I rehearse, my voice sounding tinny in the tiled room. "Rotator cuff acting up. Kinesiology tape."
Yeah, that’ll work. Maybe.
Now for the hard part. The pants.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and push down. The friction against my hips makes me suck in a sharp breath. Stepping out of them requires a level of balance I currently do not possess. I have to grab the bench to keep from toppling over as I kick the denim away.
I’m left in my briefs, staring at my swim trunks. My team-issue Speedos. They are small. They are tight. They are designed to be aerodynamic, not to hide the evidence of a sexual conquest.
I pull them on, gritting my teeth as I drag the tight fabric up my legs. I yank the waistband up as high as it will go, praying it covers the bruises on my hip bones. It just barely covers the worst of it. If I move too much, if I twist the wrong way, the dark marks are going to peek out.
"Don't twist," I tell myself. "Swim straight lines. No flip turns if you can help it."
I grab my cap and goggles, taking one last look in the mirror. I look pale. The bandage stands out against my tan skin like a beacon. I look like I’ve been in a car accident.
"You did this to yourself," I remind the miserable reflection. "You wanted a rivalry. You wanted his attention. Well, congratulations, Sihwan. You got it."
I turn away from the mirror, forcing my shoulders back, trying to summon even an ounce of my usual arrogance. It hurts. Everything hurts. My ass throbs in time with my heartbeat.
I march toward the door to the pool deck, trying to smooth out my limp into a swagger. It’s not working. I’m walking like a cowboy who spent three weeks in the saddle.
I push the heavy door open, and the wall of humidity and chlorine hits me. The sound of splashing water and the coach’s whistle pierces my eardrums.
Here goes nothing.
Three days. That’s how long it takes for the human body—or at least, my superior, Alpha-grade body—to bounce back from total annihilation.
I’m sitting on a sticky leather couch in a VIP room at Star Coin Noraebang, and for the first time since the "Incident," I don't feel like I’m sitting on a cactus.
The deep, bone-bruising ache in my hips has faded to a dull, barely-there stiffness that I can easily blame on a heavy squat session. The waddle is gone. My stride is back.
I am Oh Sihwan, and I have survived the apocalypse.
"Yah! Sihwan-ah! Your turn!"
Seungchan shoves a microphone into my chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me. The room is a chaotic mess of flashing disco lights, tambourine rattling, and the smell of cheap beer and dried squid. It’s loud, it’s tacky, and it’s absolutely perfect.
I grin, snatching the mic with a flourish. "About time. You guys were butchering that ballad. My ears were bleeding."
A chorus of boos and laughter erupts from the group. We’ve got a solid crew tonight—me, Seungchan, a couple of other guys from the department, and three omega girls from the fashion design major who have been eyeing my biceps all night.
This. This is the natural order of things. Me in the center, everyone else orbiting.
The song ends on a high note—literally. I hold the final, wailing crescendo of the rock ballad until my lungs burn and the speakers crackle, striking a pose with one hand in the air and the other gripping the mic like a weapon.
The room erupts. Seungchan is howling, slamming his hand on the table so hard the empty beer cans jump. The girls are clapping, their eyes sparkling in the strobing disco lights.
"King shit!" Seungchan yells, tossing a piece of popcorn at me.
I grin, breathless and sweating, soaking it in. This. This is the fuel I run on. Not the confusing, dark, suffocating intensity of a silent apartment, but this loud, bright, adoration. I bow dramatically, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand before tossing the mic onto the sofa.
I drop down between the two fashion majors—Hyesoo and... Soojin? Yeah, Soojin. The leather couch makes a rude noise as I land, but I ignore it, spreading my legs wide in a classic power stance.
And the best part? No pain. My hips don't scream. My lower back feels loose and limber. The universe has forgiven me. The glitch in the matrix has been patched.
"You have such a good voice, oppa," Hyesoo says, leaning in close. She’s wearing a fuzzy pink cardigan that looks incredibly soft, and she smells like artificial strawberries and vanilla body spray.
Usually, I’d play it cool, make them work for it. But tonight, I’m starving. Not for food, but for validation. For proof. I need to remind myself of what I am.
I drape my arm along the back of the booth behind her, letting my hand brush her shoulder. "I have many talents," I say, flashing my best, practiced smirk. "Singing is just the tip of the iceberg."
Hyesoo giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Soojin, on my other side, touches my bicep, her fingers lingering on the muscle.
"You’ve been working out more, haven't you?" Soojin asks, her voice dropping an octave. "Your arms are huge."
"Always on the grind," I lie smoothly. I haven't been to the gym in four days because I couldn't walk without waddling, but she doesn't need to know that. I flex slightly under her touch, watching her eyes widen.
See? This is how it works. Alpha. Omega. Simple geometry.
I take a swig of my beer, letting the cheap, fizzy alcohol wash away the last lingering anxiety in my chest. What happened with Donghwa was a fluke.
A biological misfire. It was just... too much adrenaline.
Too much competition. We got caught up in the moment, wires got crossed, and things got weird. It happens. Probably.
It doesn't mean anything. It definitely doesn't mean I’m into it or anything insane like that.
I look at Hyesoo. She’s pretty. Soft. Submissive. Exactly what I need. I need to be on top. I need to be the one in control, setting the pace, making someone else gasp. I need to overwrite the sensory memory of being pinned down with the reality of conquering someone else.
It’s the perfect palate cleanser. Like eating a cracker after a bad oyster.
"It's getting kind of hot in here, isn't it?" I ask, leaning closer to Hyesoo. I lower my voice, letting a little bit of my pheromones leak out.
Hyesoo’s eyes dilate instantly. She shivers, her scent spiking in response.
The air shifts. It’s subtle at first, a change in pressure, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
Hyesoo’s eyes are blown wide, her pupils swallowing the iris, and I can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
She’s responding to me. She’s opening up, her biology answering my call just like it’s supposed to.
"Oppa," she breathes, leaning in until her nose brushes the collar of my shirt.
Then, she lets it go. Her scent glands flare, releasing a concentrated burst of pheromones meant to hook me, reel me in, and drown me in desire.
I brace myself for the rush. I wait for that familiar, heady jolt of lust, the darkening of my vision, the primal urge to grab her and bite.
Instead, my stomach drops through the floor.
It winds me like a physical slap—a wave of cloying, suffocating sweetness. Artificial strawberry. Burnt sugar. It’s not enticing; it’s thick and oily, coating the back of my throat like cough syrup.
I flinch, my head jerking back instinctively.
"Sihwan?" Hyesoo blinks, confused, her hand tightening on my arm. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," I choke out. My voice sounds wet. "Just... strong."
She giggles, taking that as a compliment. "I wore it for you."
She leans in again, and this time, Soojin on my other side decides to join the party. Sensing the competition, she flares her own scent—something floral, like heavy, powdery jasmine.