Chapter Eleven
Donghwa
Waking up alone is standard procedure. I prefer it. I like my space, I like my silence, and I generally like my bed to myself once the main event is over.
But waking up alone last Sunday, with the sheets still wrecked and the room reeking of spiced rum and scorched earth, didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a theft.
Oh Sihwan, the loudmouth who usually can’t go five seconds without demanding an audience, had vanished like a thief in the night. He didn't even leave a note. Just a cold spot on the mattress and a lingering scent that clung to my clothes and made my teeth ache.
That was six days ago. Six days of absolute, utter bullshit.
I’ve spent the entire week in a state of low-grade, slowly increasing irritation.
It’s distracting. I’m in the darkroom trying to develop a roll of film, and instead of focusing on the contrast, I’m thinking about the way Sihwan’s eyes rolled back when I bottomed out inside him.
I’m in Professor Yoon’s lecture, staring at the back of a head that looks vaguely like his, wondering if I can get away with dragging him out by his collar.
The worst part is the running.
For a guy who spent the last month getting in my face, tripping me in the cafeteria, and practically begging for my attention, Sihwan has suddenly developed the evasive skills of a fugitive.
He’s wearing hoodies two sizes too big, hood up, head down.
He sits in the back corner of the lecture hall, closest to the exit, and the second the professor dismisses us, he bolts.
I tried to corner him on Tuesday. I saw him heading for the vending machines, looking twitchy. I didn't even get within ten feet before he caught my scent, stiffened like he’d been tased, and sprinted in the opposite direction.
It’s infuriating.
And physically, I’m a wreck. I’m not used to wanting things I can’t have immediately.
My patience, usually infinite when it comes to my work, is nonexistent here.
Every time I catch a drift of his pheromones—that heavy, expensive musk that used to seem forced—my blood heats up.
It’s a sharp, biting hunger that settles right in the pit of my stomach and refuses to leave.
I’m walking around with a hair-trigger temper and a semi-permanent state of arousal that no amount of cold showers is fixing.
I’ve hooked up with plenty of people. Alphas, Omegas, Betas. It’s never been like this. It’s never been this… sticky. Usually, I scratch the itch and move on. But with Sihwan, it feels like we started a sentence and he slammed the book shut before the punctuation.
I can still feel the phantom pressure of the knot. The way his body clamped around me, desperate and terrified and hot. The way he tasted—sweat and salt and pure, undiluted Alpha ego breaking into pieces.
I want that again. I want to pin him down and ask him why he’s running, and then I want to make him scream until he forgets he has legs to run with.
Friday afternoon the practice room is quiet, save for the aggressive scratching of Soyoung’s bow against the strings of her violin and the percussive heavy-handedness of my fingers on the Steinway.
We’re running through the third movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. It’s fast, technical, and usually, I can play it in my sleep. Today, I’m dragging. I’m half a beat behind, my mind drifting from the sheet music to the memory of a bruised neck and the sound of a choked sob.
Soyoung cuts the sound abruptly, her bow slashing through the air as she pulls it off the strings. The silence that follows is loud.
"You're lagging," she says, lowering the violin and fixing me with that look that usually makes freshman Alphas wet themselves. "If you play any slower, we’re going to be playing a dirge."
I let my hands drop from the keys, leaning back on the bench. I don't bother apologizing. Soyoung doesn't care about apologies; she cares about competence.
"I'm distracted," I admit, staring at the black and white keys.
Soyoung snorts, reaching for her rosin. She’s wearing a leather jacket over a ripped band tee, looking less like a classical musician and more like she’s about to mug someone. "Let me guess. The meathead."
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
"Donghwa," she sighs, shaking her head, her blonde-tipped wolf cut falling over her eyes. "You look like a kicked puppy. It’s pathetic. What is going on with you two? I haven't seen him peacocking around the canteen all week. It’s been blissfully quiet."
"He's hiding," I say, the irritation spiking in my chest again. "He avoids me like I’m carrying a plague. Every time I walk into a room, he finds a window to jump out of."
Soyoung laughs, a sharp, barking sound. "Maybe you broke him. Literally. You’re not exactly small, and Sihwan.
.. well, he talks a big game, but he’s mostly just protein powder and hair gel.
" She smirks, leaning against the piano.
"Maybe you scared him off with that monster cock of yours. He’s probably walking funny. "
I roll my eyes, though I can't suppress the twitch of a smirk. "He was fine. Physically, at least. And he wasn't complaining at the time."
That’s the part that gnaws at me. If he’d hated it, if I’d forced him, I’d understand the running. But he hadn't. He’d unraveled. He’d been responsive, desperate, matching my energy snap for snap until the biology took over.
"He practically begged for it, Soyoung," I say, frustration leaking into my voice. "He spent a month getting in my face, pushing every button I have, challenging me to a pissing contest every time I breathed. He wanted a reaction. He got one. Now he’s acting like I’m the villain for giving him exactly what he asked for. "
Soyoung starts tightening her bow, her expression amused. "You bruised his ego, genius. That’s worse than bruising his ass."
She points the bow at me like a weapon. "Think about it. Sihwan’s entire personality is built on being the 'Top Dog.
' He’s the loud, rich, dominant Alpha who gets whatever he wants.
And then you come along—richer, taller, stronger—and not only do you beat him, you make him enjoy taking it up the tailpipe. "
She shrugs. "He’s having an identity crisis. He’s probably sitting in his room right now staring at a poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger and wondering why he wants to build a nest."
"He’s an idiot," I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.
"He is," she agrees readily. "But he’s a proud idiot. He needs time to process the fact that he’s not the big bad alpha he thought he was."
I hit a discordant chord on the piano, the jarring sound echoing in the high ceilings. "I don't have time. I’m losing my mind. I can smell him on my clothes half the time, and the other half I’m just pissed off."
Soyoung watches me for a moment, her dark eyes sharp. She sets her violin down in its case and crosses her arms.
"Then stop waiting," she says simply.
I look up at her. "What?"
"You’re an Alpha, aren't you? A 'Dominant' one, or whatever the hell the medical journals call it." She grins, showing teeth. "If the prey is running, you don't sit around moping on a piano bench. You hunt."
I stare at her, my expression flat.
"Hunt him down," she continues, her voice dropping, conspiratorial and mocking. "Corner him. Use those expensive, old-money pheromones you’re always suppressing. Force him to submit. Remind him why he liked it in the first place."
She picks up her bow again, checking the tension.
"Solve the problem the old-fashioned way," she says, winking at me. "Dick him down until he forgets he’s supposed to be running away."
I snort.
"You're a bad influence," I tell her.
"I'm a realist," she counters.
I wince, pressing my palm against the tender spot on my side. The bruise blooming there is currently a vibrant, artistic shade of violet. Sihwan might be a vanity-obsessed gym rat, but the muscle isn't just for show. He hits like a truck.
"As tempting as a rematch sounds," I mutter, rubbing at the phantom ache in my ribs, "I’d prefer not to have to fistfight just to get laid. Again."
I take a shallow breath, feeling the catch in my chest. "He eventually submitted, sure. But he made me work for it. I’m still wheezing from that cheap shot he landed on my ribs before I pinned him. The guy fights dirty."
Soyoung throws her head back and laughs, a sharp, barking sound that bounces off the acoustic tiling. "Sounds like it was worth the cardio, though. You haven't stopped thinking about it."
She rests her chin on her hand, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Personally? I wouldn't know. Never fucked another alpha. Too much effort. I prefer Omegas. Soft, sweet, significantly less likely to give me a concussion."
She pauses, her gaze drifting past my shoulder to the glass panel of the door. Her eyebrows shoot up, appreciative and predatory.
"Like this pretty piece of ass, for example."
I don't even have time to turn around before the door handle turns. The heavy door swings open.
A male Omega steps in. And yeah, Soyoung’s right. He’s stunning. Doe eyes, soft hair, the kind of face that launches a thousand ships or whatever. He freezes when he sees us, his hand still on the doorknob, eyes widening as the heavy Alpha pheromones in the room hit him.
"Oh," he breathes, blinking rapidly. He bows his head, looking properly cowed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know anyone was in here. I just... I needed to grab some sheet music from the cabinet."
Soyoung doesn't dial it back. She leans against the curve of the piano, spreading her legs in that careless, domineering sprawl she favors, and flashes the kid a grin that is equal parts invitation and threat.
"Don't let us stop you, sweetheart," she purrs, her voice dropping an octave.