Chapter Ten #4
The two scents collide in the air right under my nose, mixing into a horrific, chemical cocktail. Strawberry-jasmine-vanilla sludge.
My saliva glands flood. And not in the good way.
A violent wave of nausea rolls up my esophagus, hot and acidic.
The room spins. The flashing disco lights, which were fun thirty seconds ago, are now stabbing directly into my brain.
The smell isn't just unappealing; it feels wrong.
It feels like rotting fruit left out in the sun.
It feels like a biological error message flashing in neon red across my vision.
Don't puke. Do not puke on the girl.
I swallow hard, trying to force the bile down. "I... wait."
"You okay, man?" Seungchan’s voice cuts through the fog. He’s looking at me from across the table, a half-eaten shrimp chip hanging from his mouth. "You look green."
"I’m fine," I lie, but sweat is breaking out on my upper lip. Cold, clammy sweat.
Hyesoo nuzzles into my neck, right near the bandage hidden under my shirt.
Her nose presses against my pulse point, inhaling deeply, and the sensation makes my skin crawl.
It’s unbearable. It feels like bugs skittering over me.
Every instinct in my body is screaming GET AWAY. WRONG. WRONG SCENT. WRONG OMEGA.
My body is rejecting them. It’s rejecting the sweetness, craving something else.
The realization makes the nausea double.
I gag. It’s audible. A wet, retching sound that cuts through the music.
Hyesoo jumps back, looking horrified. "Oppa?"
"I gotta..." I clap a hand over my mouth, scrambling to my feet. My knees hit the table, sending empty beer cans clattering to the floor. "Bathroom."
"Sihwan?"
I don't wait. I shove past Soojin, stumbling over someone’s legs. The smell is everywhere, sticking to my clothes, sticking to my skin. I can’t breathe. I need air. I need to get this scent out of my nose before I empty my stomach right here on the sticky carpet.
I burst out of the private room and into the hallway.
The corridor is narrow, lined with doors to other rooms, vibrating with the muffled sounds of terrible singing.
The air here is stale, smelling of old cigarettes and disinfectant, but it’s better than the suffocating cloud of omega pheromones back in the room.
I sprint. I shoulder-check a waiter carrying a tray of fruit, not even stopping to apologize as melons go flying.
Men’s room. Men’s room.
I hit the door with my shoulder, bursting into the tiled sanctuary. It’s empty, thank god. I dive for the nearest stall, kick the door open, and drop to my knees in front of the toilet just as my stomach convulses.
I heave, my body trying to turn itself inside out.
It’s violent and miserable. I grip the porcelain rim, my knuckles white, tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I retch. Nothing much comes up—just beer and bile—but the spasms won’t stop. It’s like my body is trying to purge the very scent of those girls from my system.
Finally, the heaving stops. I slump back against the stall wall, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m trembling. My legs feel like water, and my heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"What the hell?" I whisper, my voice raspy.
I stare at the graffiti-covered door of the stall. Call for a good time, someone wrote in black marker.
This is not a good time. This is a nightmare.
I’m an Alpha. I’m supposed to love that smell. I’m supposed to drown in it. I’ve spent years chasing that exact scent profile. Why did it make me feel like I was swallowing poison?
I drag myself up from the tiles, my knees protesting against the hard ceramic. The bathroom smells like bleach and urinal cakes, a distinct downgrade from the VIP room, but at least it doesn't smell like a strawberry factory exploded.
I stumble to the sinks, gripping the cold porcelain like a lifeline. I look like a wreck. My skin is clammy, pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, and there’s a sheen of sweat on my upper lip that screams "I just hurled my guts out."
I cup my hands under the tap, splashing freezing water onto my face, trying to shock my system back to factory settings. I rinse my mouth out, spitting the taste of bile and cheap beer into the drain.
Get it together, Sihwan.
I stare at my reflection, water dripping from my chin. What is wrong with me? I’ve hooked up with omegas wearing half a gallon of perfume before. I’ve never had a reaction like that. It wasn't just a bad smell; it was a biological rejection. My body treated that sweet, cloying scent like a threat.
Just thinking about Hyesoo’s strawberry scent makes my stomach give a warning lurch. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing through my nose. In, out. You’re fine. You just ate something bad. Bad shrimp. It was the shrimp.
The bathroom door swings open behind me.
I tense up instantly. Instinct kicks in—posture check, shoulders back. I don't want anyone seeing the Great Oh Sihwan looking like a drowned rat in a public restroom.
Heavy boots scuff against the tile. A guy walks in—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a leather jacket that’s seen better days. He’s another student, maybe a senior in Engineering by the look of the grease stain on his jeans. Definitely an Alpha.
He doesn't even look at me. He strides past the sinks toward the urinals, invading my personal space with the casual arrogance of someone who knows they take up room.
And then his scent reaches me.
It’s rough. Unrefined. It smells like motor oil, stale tobacco, and heavy, woody cedar. Normally, this is the part where I’d bristle. I’d flare my own scent, push back, establish dominance. It’s the Alpha handshake—a silent, pissy little war of I’m bigger than you.
But I don't bristle.
Instead, the moment that heavy, masculine musk washes over me, the nausea in my gut vanishes. It just… evaporates.
And is replaced by a flutter.
My stomach doesn't clench; it flips. A weird, hot swoop low in my belly, like I missed a step on a staircase.
My knees, which were already shaky, go soft for a completely different reason.
I catch a lungful of that motor oil scent and my brain goes fuzzy, a sudden, traitorous spark of interest lighting up my nervous system.
Oh, that smells good.
The thought fires across my synapses before I can strangle it.
I freeze, water still dripping off my nose. My heart gives a stupid, excited little kick against my ribs. I’m not angry. I’m not competitive. I’m… flustered.
The guy unzips his fly at the urinal, completely oblivious to the fact that I am gripping the edge of the sink, staring at his back with wide, horrified eyes.
Heat rushes into my face. Not the cold sweat of sickness, but a genuine, burning blush. I feel it crawl up my neck, scorching the skin under my collar.
What the fuck?
I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are pink. My pupils are blown wide. I look like I just saw my celebrity crush, not some random grease-monkey Alpha taking a leak.
I am an Alpha. I like soft, sweet-smelling things. I like curves and submission. I do not get weak in the knees for the smell of cedar and sweat.
But my body is singing a different tune.
It’s humming, vibrating with a confused, desperate need that feels terrifyingly similar to how I felt when Donghwa had me pinned to that mattress.
It’s like my wires have been crossed. Like someone went into the control room of my brain and switched the labels on the "Attraction" and "Aggression" buttons.
The bathroom door swings shut behind the grease-monkey Alpha, cutting off the heavy thud of his boots. The silence rushes back in, magnified by the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, but the air still feels charged.
I’m gripping the sink so hard my knuckles are turning white. I stare at the door, my chest heaving, trying to understand why my knees are still weak. Why my heart is doing a traitorous little tap-dance against my ribs.
The nausea from the girls in the VIP room is gone, replaced by this confusing, restless heat that’s buzzing under my skin. It feels like my internal compass is spinning wild, the needle snapping off and pointing in the completely wrong direction.
Unconsciously, my hand drifts up.
It’s a reflex. A need to ground myself. My fingers brush against my collarbone, sliding under the fabric of my shirt until they find the edge of the bandage on my shoulder.
I freeze.
Through the thick adhesive pad, I can feel it.
It’s been three days. I’m a Dominant Alpha.
My metabolic rate is insane; I heal like Wolverine.
A bruise usually fades in twenty-four hours.
A cut closes up overnight. By all medical logic, the bite mark Donghwa left on me should be a fading memory by now—a dull ache, smooth skin knitting back together.
But it’s not smooth.
I press down, and a jolt of sensitivity zings down my arm. Under the bandage, the skin feels rigid. Raised. The texture is distinct—a perfect, jagged ring of puncture marks that haven't flattened out. They feel hard, like welts. Like a brand.
A cold drop of sweat slides down my temple.
My fingers tremble as I hook a nail under the edge of the waterproof bandage. Don’t look. Just leave it.
I rip it off.
The sound is loud in the tiled room. I twist my neck, straining to see the reflection in the mirror, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
It’s not healing.
The bite isn't an angry purple anymore. It’s turning a silvery, pearlescent white. It’s scarring over, but not in the messy, chaotic way of an injury. It looks deliberate. The teeth marks are defined, raised against my tan skin like a relief map. It looks ancient. It looks permanent.
My brain stops. The world tilts on its axis.
I stare at the mark, and the pieces of the last hour—the last three days—start to slam into place with the force of a car crash.
Piece one: The girls. The omegas. Their scent didn't just smell bad; it made me physically ill. My body rejected it like a bad organ transplant. It treated their pheromones like a foreign contaminant.
Piece two: The guy in the leather jacket. An Alpha. His scent didn't make me aggressive. It didn't make me want to fight. It made me... receptive. It soothed the nausea.
Piece three: The bite. The knot.
The blood drains from my face so fast I actually get dizzy. I clutch the sink to keep from hitting the floor.
"No," I whisper. The word sounds small, terrified. "No, no, no. That’s impossible."
Bites don't scar like this. Not on Alphas. We fight, we bite, we heal. It’s just roughhousing. It’s just dominance.
Unless...
Unless there was a knot involved. Unless there was a biological override. Unless the pheromone compatibility was so high, so catastrophic, that the bite didn't just break skin—it broke the code.
A bond.
The term floats up from the depths of my high school biology class, a concept I always ignored because it didn't apply to me. Bonds are for Alphas and Omegas. Bonds are for soulmates and romance novels. Bonds are what happen when you find your "perfect match" and lock it down.
You don't bond with your rival. You don't bond with a guy you were trying to beat up. You definitely, absolutely do not bond with another Dominant Alpha.
But the evidence is stamped right there on my shoulder.
I didn't just get fucked. I got claimed.
My body isn't rejecting the omegas because I ate bad shrimp. It’s rejecting them because it thinks I’m taken. It thinks I belong to someone else. My biology has re-wired itself to recognize only one specific scent signature as acceptable, and everything else is just noise.
Winter air. Ink. Ginseng.
"Oh my god," I choke out, staring at my reflection with wide, horrified eyes.
I’m bonded.
I am biologically, chemically, and permanently tethered to Kang Donghwa.
The freshman. The guy who wears turtlenecks and looks at me like I’m a particularly noisy insect. The guy I swore to destroy.
I’m not just his rival anymore. I’m his... what? His mate?
The thought makes my knees buckle for real this time. I slide down the front of the sink, landing hard on the dirty tile floor. I pull my knees to my chest, burying my hands in my hair.
"I’m going to die," I mutter into my knees. "I am actually going to die."
I can feel it now. Now that I know what it is, I can’t ignore it. There’s a hollow, aching space in my chest, a pull that feels like a hooked fishing line. It’s tugging me. It’s looking for the other end of the connection. It’s looking for him.
I’m sitting on the floor of a karaoke bar bathroom, smelling like bleach and despair, realizing that the universe hasn't just played a joke on me. It has ruined me.
I am Oh Sihwan, the Campus King.
And I apparently belong to the freshman.