Chapter Eleven #2
The kid turns pink. Not a subtle flush, but a violent, blotchy red that creeps up his neck and stains his ears.
He keeps his head down, murmuring a frantic apology that neither of us really catches, and scuttles toward the filing cabinet in the corner like a mouse that just realized it walked into a cat café.
I just watch, resting my elbow on the keys, creating a low hum.
He’s pretty, sure. Objectively. Soft skin, wide eyes, smells like vanilla or fabric softener or whatever generic "come get me" scent is trending this semester. But he’s... easy. He’s terrified.
He’s reacting exactly the way biology dictates he should react to two Alphas occupying a small, soundproofed space.
It’s boring.
He grabs the binder he needs, clutching it to his chest like a shield.
He practically trips over his own feet trying to turn around, but before he hits the door, he pauses.
He looks back. His gaze darts between Soyoung’s leather jacket and my turtleneck, lingering for a second too long.
His eyes are wet, wide, and painfully hopeful, scanning us with that distinct look of someone who wouldn't mind being told what to do.
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence returns, heavy and comfortable.
Soyoung lets out a low, appreciative whistle that cuts through the quiet.
"Damn," she laughs, shaking her head as she reaches for her rosin again. "Was all that for you or me do you think?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, frowning.
Soyoung stares at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking French. She gestures vaguely at the space the kid just vacated, her nose twitching.
"The smell, Donghwa. Are you congested? The air in here is thick enough to chew on."
I blink, confused. I flare my nostrils, taking a deliberate, deep drag of the practice room air.
I expect the usual assault—that cloying, sugary sweetness that usually clings to the back of my throat.
I’m waiting for the headache-inducing floral notes or the heavy vanilla that Omegas usually project when they’re flustered.
Nothing.
I smell the dust in the acoustic tiling. I smell the rosin on Soyoung’s bow. I smell the metallic tang of the brass doorknob. But the Omega? It’s like he was never here.
"I don't smell anything," I say flatly.
Soyoung’s jaw actually drops. She lowers her violin, staring at me with genuine bewilderment.
"You have got to be kidding me," she says, her voice rising in disbelief. "Seriously? That kid was practically leaking pheromones. It was potent, Donghwa. Like, 'bend me over right now' potent. I’m practically creaming my jeans over here, and you’re getting nothing?"
I shift on the bench, a weird unease settling in my gut. That’s not right. I’m a Dominant Alpha; my senses aren't just good, they’re a curse. I can usually smell an Omega entering the building before they even get to the floor. I hate it. It’s distracting and intrusive.
But now? It’s a void. A dead zone.
"I'm serious," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "I picked up zero. Maybe he was wearing blockers?"
"Blockers don't work like that, not when they’re that flustered," Soyoung argues, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. She looks like a scientist examining a particularly stupid lab rat. "That is... bizarre. You usually complain about the smell of the freshman class being too loud."
She steps closer, tilting her head. Her expression shifts from confusion to a calculated curiosity.
"Okay, let's try something," she says. "Can you detect this?"
She doesn't wait for an answer. She just lets go.
It hits me instantly. A wall of aggressive, burning scent—burnt cedar, ozone, and sharp citrus. It’s hostile. It’s the olfactory equivalent of a punch to the throat.
"Fuck!"
I recoil so hard I nearly tip the piano bench over. My lip curls back in an instinctive, animalistic sneer of disgust, my throat closing up as I cough. It’s repulsive. It triggers every territorial instinct I have, making the hair on my arms stand up.
"Reel it in!" I snap, covering my nose and glaring at her. "Jesus, Soyoung. Are you trying to kill me?"
Soyoung dials it back, thankfully. The oppressive weight of burnt cedar lifts from the room, leaving me rubbing my nose and glaring at her.
"Interesting," she hums, tapping the horsehair of her bow against her chin.
She looks like a scientist who just discovered a new, particularly stupid species of bacteria.
"So, let me get this straight. You're nose-blind to a prime Omega who was practically dripping on the floor, but the second I let out a little Alpha dominance, you look like you’re ready to commit a felony. "
"I've never reacted like that before," I admit, leaning back against the piano keys. A low plink echoes behind me. "Usually, other Alphas are just annoying. Background noise. That felt... personal."
"Personal," she repeats. She starts pacing, her combat boots squeaking faintly on the floor. "What changed? You were fine last week. You were bored, sure, but your nose worked."
She stops mid-step. She turns slowly, fixing me with a look that makes me want to check if my fly is down.
"That guy," she starts, pointing the bow at me. "Sihwan. He is an Alpha, right? Not a Beta on steroids or a really confused Omega?"
"He's an Alpha," I confirm. "A Dominant one, allegedly. Though he whines enough to be questionable."
"Right. And you said you knotted him."
I feel a flush heat the back of my neck. I hate talking about this with her, but I nod. "Yes. We established that."
"Did you bite him?"
The question hangs in the air, suspended in the dust motes.
I open my mouth to brush it off, to say no, of course not, I'm not a feral animal.
But then the memory hits me. The haze of the rut, the overwhelming need to keep him there, the way his shoulder looked so pale and exposed against the dark sheets.
I remember the taste of salt and copper.
I remember the way his scream turned into a sob when my teeth sank in.
I didn't just nip him. I locked my jaw. I broke the skin. I wanted everyone who looked at him to know exactly whose teeth fit those marks.
I swallow, the phantom taste of him suddenly heavy on my tongue.
"Yes," I say, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. "I bit him."
Soyoung stares at me. She doesn't blink. A slow, incredulous grin spreads across her face, showing off her canines.
"You bit him," she repeats, savoring the words. "On the scent gland?"
"Shoulder," I correct, though I know it's close enough to count. "I wasn't exactly aiming. It was... heat of the moment."
"Uh-huh. Heat of the moment." She scoffs, shaking her head. She walks over and leans into my personal space, her dark eyes dancing with malicious delight.
"Okay, let's review the data, Einstein. You knotted him, which induces a biological high.
You bit him, breaking the skin and mixing your saliva with his blood during climax.
And now, less than a week later, you are physically incapable of smelling available mates, and you react to other Alphas with extreme territorial aggression. "
She pokes me in the chest with the tip of her bow. Hard.
"You're an honors student, Donghwa. What does that sound like to you?"
The silence that follows is heavy, thick enough to choke on.
I stare at the scuffed toe of Soyoung’s combat boot. My brain, usually a well-oiled machine capable of deconstructing complex art theory or memorizing concertos in a week, grinds to a screeching, sparks-flying halt.
I try to find a loophole. I try to find the flaw in her logic. I want to tell her she’s insane, that biology doesn't work like that, that two Dominant Alphas can't just... click together like Lego bricks just because one of them lost control and decided to act like a feral wolf for twenty minutes.
But the evidence is stacked against me like a brick wall.
The nose blindness. The sudden, violent urge to rip Soyoung’s throat out just for smelling like an Alpha in my vicinity. The obsessive, gnawing need to find Sihwan that’s been keeping me awake for six days straight. The way I didn't just want to fuck him, I wanted to keep him.
It’s not just a hookup. It’s not just a bruised ego.
A low, guttural sound builds in my chest, vibrating against my ribs before escaping as a long, miserable groan. I lean forward, burying my face in my hands, pressing my palms into my eyes until I see stars.
"Fuck," I breathe into my hands.
It’s a catastrophe. It’s a cosmic joke. I came to university to escape my family’s suffocating expectations, to make art, to be left alone. And instead, in the first month, I’ve accidentally tethered myself biologically to the loudest, most high-maintenance, insecure gym-bro on campus.
I drag my hands down my face, pulling at the skin, and stare blankly at the piano keys.
"I fucking bonded him."
Monday morning arrives with all the grace of a sledgehammer to the temple.
I didn't sleep. My body spent the entire weekend in a state of high-alert agitation, like a radio stuck between stations, buzzing with static. I kept waiting for a signal that never came.
By the time I walk into the Visual Communication lecture hall, I’m running on caffeine and a very short fuse. I scan the room before I’m even fully through the door. My eyes skip over the rows of sleepy students, ignoring the Omegas who perk up as I enter, ignoring the hushed whispers.
I’m looking for one specific, annoying, gel-haired head.
He’s not here.
The seat next to Heesung—Sihwan’s usual throne from which he surveys his imaginary kingdom—is empty.
I stop in the aisle, a frown tugging at my mouth. It’s wrong. The room feels wrong. It’s too quiet, lacking that undercurrent of desperate "look at me" energy Sihwan projects. I take a seat in the back row, drumming my fingers on the desk, staring at the back of Heesung’s head.