Chapter Twelve
Sihwan
My apartment looks like a cave. A very expensive, high-rise cave where my social life and dignity have gone to die.
I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in a pair of sweatpants, eating ice cream out of the carton and staring at the wall.
Seungchan has called me twenty times. I’ve ignored every single one.
What am I supposed to say? “Hey, sorry I bailed on karaoke, I was busy having a biological meltdown because the freshman I tried to bully accidentally claimed my soul.”
Yeah, that’ll go over great in the group chat.
I drag myself off the couch, kicking aside an empty water bottle, and sit back down at my desk. My laptop screen glows with the same depressing search results I’ve been staring at since Saturday night.
How to break a mating bond.
Bond rejection symptoms.
Can two Alphas accidentally bond?
Is there a morning-after pill for spiritual tethering?
The internet, usually my best friend for buying sneakers and stalking exes, is useless. Actually, it’s worse than useless. It’s actively mocking me. Every medical journal, every sketchy forum, every "Ask a Doctor" thread says the exact same thing.
Permanent.
The word glares at me. Permanent biological phenomenon. Irreversible neurological restructuring. Life-long attachment.
"Bullshit," I mutter, scrolling aggressively. "There has to be a loophole. Everything has a loophole if you have enough money."
I click on a link for a private clinic in Switzerland. Bond severance is only possible through the cessation of vital functions in one or both partners.
"Death," I say to the empty room. "My option is death. Fantastic."
I slam the laptop shut, resisting the urge to hurl it off the balcony.
This can’t be real. I am the heir to the Paradise Hotel chain.
I was supposed to be the Campus King, the guy who has Omegas lining up to buy me coffee.
I am not supposed to be biologically tethered to Kang Donghwa, the guy who dresses like he's in a permanent emo phase and looks at me like I’m a stain on his shoe.
I pace the room. The silence is loud. Usually, I hate silence—I need music, people, noise to remind me I exist—but right now, my head is too full of static.
And him. That’s the worst part. It’s like there’s a low-frequency hum in the back of my brain that just screams Donghwa. It’s annoying. It’s intrusive.
I stop in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway. I look like hell. My hair is flat, my eyes have dark circles, and I haven't shaved. I look like a Beta who just got fired.
I pull the collar of my t-shirt down, craning my neck to look at the damage.
The bite is there. It’s ugly. A jagged, raised mark right where my neck meets my shoulder. It’s a brand. A "Property of Kang Donghwa" sticker that I can’t peel off. It throbs a little, a dull ache that seems to pulse whenever I get particularly angry about it.
"Okay," I tell my reflection. "Plan B. If I can't break the magic voodoo bond, I can at least get rid of the evidence."
I go back to the laptop. New search.
Cosmetic surgery bite mark removal.
Laser scar revision for mating marks.
This looks more promising. There are clinics in Gangnam that specialize in this. I scroll through before-and-after photos. It’s expensive, painful, and takes multiple sessions, but I don’t care. I’ll pay whatever. I’ll let them sandblast my skin if it means getting this thing off me.
I click on a consultation FAQ.
Q: Is removal permanent?
A: While laser revision can reduce the appearance of the scar tissue by 90%, patients must be advised that the bonded area remains sensitive. If the bonded partner reapplies the bite—
I stop reading. Reapplies the bite.
I force myself to read the next line.
—the scar tissue will reform aggressively, often resulting in keloid scarring that is impossible to remove a second time. The biological drive to re-mark a bonded mate is high, and the skin retains a 'memory' of the claim.
I stare at the screen. So, basically, I can scrub it off, but if Donghwa ever gets his teeth near me again—which, considering we are apparently soulmates or whatever, is a biological probability—it’ll come back uglier and harder.
I groan, loud and long, throwing my head back.
"I hate him," I say to the ceiling. "I hate him so much."
Usually, Saturday nights are my religion. I’m supposed to be in a VIP booth, surrounded by people who want to sleep with me or be me, holding a bottle of something that costs more than a semester’s tuition.
Instead, I’m sitting on my living room floor in the dark, nursing a bottle of Glenfiddich like a divorced dad in a K-drama.
My phone buzzes on the rug beside me. Seungchan again.
Bro, where are you? Hyunjin is asking if you’re coming. He says he brought the good stuff.
I stare at the screen, the blue light stinging my eyes. I can’t go out there. I can’t risk smelling an Omega and puking on my shoes, or worse, smelling an Alpha and getting a semi in the middle of the club. My reputation is fragile enough without me acting like a confused pervert in public.
I type back with one thumb. Can’t. Family emergency. Dad summoned me to the main estate for dinner. He’s screaming about quarterly projections. Save yourself.
It’s the perfect lie. Nobody questions a rich kid getting dragged into family drama.
RIP, Seungchan replies instantly. Drink one for me.
"Way ahead of you," I mutter, taking a swig straight from the bottle. It burns going down, hot and angry, but it doesn't drown out the noise in my head.
By Sunday evening, the self-pity has morphed into something physical. I feel like garbage. My skin feels too tight for my body, and there’s a dull, throbbing heat radiating from my bones. I check the thermostat. It’s set to a cool twenty degrees, but I’m sweating through my t-shirt.
"Great," I groan, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead. "Hangover fever. Just what I needed."
I stumble into the kitchen, dry-swallow two ibuprofen, and chug a glass of water. I just need to sleep it off. If I can just sleep for twelve hours, I’ll wake up, my brain will reset, and I can figure out how to get a laser to burn Donghwa’s claim off my neck without turning into a keloid monster.
I crawl into bed, burying my face in the pillow. It smells like me, but tonight, the scent feels irritating. Suffocating. I kick the duvet off, then pull it back on five minutes later when I start shivering.
I drift off eventually, but it’s not restful. It’s heavy, black, and full of static.
I wake up with a gasp, my lungs seizing like I’ve been underwater.
The room is pitch black, but my senses are screaming. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that hurts. I’m drenched. My t-shirt is plastered to my chest, soaked through with sweat, and the sheets are damp beneath me.
I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slams me back down.
"Fuck," I wheeze.
It’s hot. Unbearably, impossibly hot. It feels like someone lit a fire inside my marrow. And then I realize why the sheets feel so uncomfortable.
I’m hard. Painfully, rock-hard, straining against my boxers. And it’s messy. I realize with a jolt of humiliation that I came in my sleep. I haven't had a wet dream since I was fourteen and obsessed with my swim instructor.
I groan, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to remember what I was dreaming about. But it’s gone, leaving behind nothing but a vague, lingering sense of need. Not the usual 'I want to get laid' need. This is different. It’s a hollow, gnawing hunger in my gut that feels violent.
I roll over, kicking the damp sheets away, and the movement sends a spike of pleasure-pain straight to my groin.
The smell hits me then.
My scent is everywhere. It’s usually controlled, a carefully constructed blend of expensive cologne and alpha pheromones. Now? It’s raw. It smells like burning wood and aggression, thick enough to taste.
I scramble for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers shaking so bad I almost drop it. I check the date.
September 18th.
"No," I whisper, my voice raspy. "No, no, no."
My cycle isn't due for another three weeks. I’m regular. I’m clockwork. I take my suppressants; I track my dates. I am the master of my own biology.
But my body isn't listening to logic. A cramp twists in my lower abdomen, sharp and hot, and a low growl rips out of my throat without my permission.
This isn't a hangover. It’s a Rut. And it’s not creeping up on me like usual, giving me a day or two of irritability before the fever hits. This is a ambush. It’s hitting me at a hundred miles an hour, skipping the foreplay and going straight to the delirium.
I curl in on myself, clutching my stomach as another wave of heat washes over me. It’s the bond. It has to be. My body thinks it has a mate now. It thinks it has somewhere to put all this aggression and lust, so it’s ramping up production, preparing to knot and claim and breed.
But I’m alone.
"Shit," I gasp.
The moment I say it, the ache in my gut triples.
The sun coming through the blinds feels like a personal attack. It’s too bright, too sharp, slicing right into my eyeballs even though my lids are squeezed shut.
I wake up with a groan that sounds more like a wounded animal than a human being. My bed, usually a haven of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, feels like a swamp. I’m drowning in sweat. It’s soaking my hair, plastering the sheets to my legs, trickling down my spine.
And the pain. God, the pain.
It’s centered between my legs, a throbbing, relentless pressure that feels like my heart has migrated south and is trying to beat its way out of my skin.
My cock is painfully hard, straining against the fabric of my boxers so tight I’m surprised the seams haven’t burst. It’s not the fun kind of morning wood. It’s an angry, inflamed demand.