Chapter Fourteen
I’m wearing enough cologne to choke a horse, and I’m praying it’s enough to cover the scent of my own stupidity.
Two days. I spent forty-eight hours in my apartment scrubbing my skin until it was red and raw, trying to wash off the phantom sensation of Kang Donghwa’s hands, his mouth, and that damn knot.
I look in the mirror of the hallway bathroom before class, adjusting the collar of my hoodie.
It’s popped high, looking ridiculous and try-hard even for me, but it’s the only thing covering the gauze taped over the bite mark on my shoulder.
"You look like shit, Sihwan," Seungchan says, clapping a hand on my back.
I flinch. Actually flinch. My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive, like I’m suffering from a sunburn that goes bone-deep.
"Flu," I lie, my voice rougher than usual. "Brutal fever. I’m still recovering."
"You missed a killer party," he says, oblivious. "And Heesung was asking about you."
At the mention of the name, I wait for the usual spark of excitement. The thrill of the chase. The ego boost. Instead, my stomach gives a wet, unhappy lurch. A group of Omega girls walks past us, giggling, leaving a trail of floral, sugary pheromones in their wake.
Usually, I’d be preening. I’d be soaking it up, letting my own scent roll out to hook them. Today, the smell hits me like rotting fruit. It’s too strong, suffocatingly sweet, and makes bile rise in my throat. I have to swallow hard to keep from gagging right there in the corridor.
"Great," I mutter, turning away from them. "Let's just get to class."
I walk into the lecture hall with my head down, a first for me. Usually, I make an entrance. I stride in, claim the center of the room, and wait for the applause. Today, I just want to find a corner and disappear.
But the universe hates me.
I feel him before I see him. It’s not a mystical psychic connection or any of that romance novel garbage. It’s biological terror mixed with a humiliating jolt of adrenaline. The air in the room feels heavier and colder.
Kang Donghwa is sitting in the back row, dressed in his usual funeral attire—black sweater, black coat, silver rings on long fingers glinting under the fluorescent lights. He’s leaning back, long legs stretched out, looking bored out of his mind.
He doesn't look up when I enter. He doesn't have to. I feel the weight of his attention snap onto me like a physical tether.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Thump-thump-thump. It’s infuriating. My brain is screaming enemy, rival, asshole, but my pulse is singing a different tune entirely. It recognizes him. It remembers the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the friction, the heat.
I shove that thought into a mental incinerator and slide into a seat on the opposite side of the tiered room, flanked by Seungchan and a couple of other Alphas.
I risk a glance. Just one.
Donghwa is looking right at me.
He’s not hiding it. His chin is propped on his hand, those dark, unreadable eyes fixed on the side of my face.
He looks calm. Predatory. There’s a faint, arrogant curl to his lip, like he knows exactly what his presence is doing to me.
Like he knows I’m wearing this stupid hoodie to hide his teeth marks.
Heat floods my face. I jerk my gaze back to the front of the room, staring aggressively at the blank whiteboard.
Don't look at him. Don't smell him. He doesn't exist.
The professor starts going on about brand identity and visual hierarchy, but the words sound like they’re coming from underwater. I’m hyper-aware of every movement behind me. A chair scrapes. A pen clicks. Is that him? Is he moving?
My skin prickles. I can feel the ghost of the bond itching under the bandage. It’s throbbing in time with my heartbeat, a constant, nagging reminder that I belong to someone. And not just anyone—the freshman alpha upstart.
"Sihwan?"
I jump, my knee hitting the desk with a loud thud.
The professor is staring at me. The whole class is staring at me.
"I asked for your opinion on the case study, Mr. Oh," the professor says, adjusting his glasses. "Since you seem to be lost in thought."
"I—" My throat is dry. I clear it, trying to summon the charismatic, top-of-the-class Alpha I’m supposed to be. "I think the brand lacks a clear target demographic. It’s trying to appeal to everyone, so it appeals to no one."
It’s a bullshit answer, generic and safe.
"Succinct," the professor says, sounding unimpressed, before moving on.
I let out a breath, slumping slightly. Then, I feel a sharp spike in the scent of winter air and ginseng, rolling over me from the back of the room. It’s a flare. A deliberate release of pheromones.
It wraps around me, heavy and possessive. It’s invisible, but it feels like a hand gripping the back of my neck.
My breath hitches. My thighs clench together instinctively, a wet slick of arousal dampening my boxers. The reaction is instantaneous, humiliatingly fast. I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white.
He’s doing this on purpose.
I risk another glance over my shoulder, glaring this time.
Donghwa hasn't moved. He’s still watching me, but now that smirk has widened just a fraction. He taps his pen against his lips—lips that were all over me two days ago—and winks.
I whip back around, face burning, furious tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I am going to kill him. I am going to drag him into a dark alley and murder him.
But as the class drags on, and the nausea from the other students' scents starts to creep back in, I find myself inhaling deeply, pulling that crisp, cold scent into my lungs like a lifeline. It’s the only thing that smells right. It’s the only thing that makes the headache recede.
I don’t submit to anyone.
But as I sit there, trembling in my hoodie, hard as a rock and terrified that someone will notice, I realize the terrifying truth. My biology doesn't care about my reputation.
"Fake it 'til you make it." That’s the motto. It’s written in invisible ink on the family crest, right under Money Can Buy You Love If You Pay Enough.
I’m sitting at the center table in the canteen, the prime real estate reserved for the social elite, or in this case, me and anyone loud enough to sit near me.
I’ve got my legs spread wide, taking up enough space for two people, an arm draped over the back of my chair, and a grin plastered on my face that feels like it’s being held up by duct tape.
"So then I told the coach, if you want the funding for the new pool, you better put me on the starting lineup," I say, loud enough for the table three rows over to hear.
Seungchan laughs, spraying a little bit of rice, and slaps the table. "Classic Sihwan! You’re a menace, bro."
"I’m a businessman," I correct, winking at a group of sophomores walking by.
They giggle. It’s working. The universe is righting itself. I am definitely not a guy who spent the weekend getting railed into a coma by a freshman.
"Sihwan-oppa?"
I turn, cranking the charm up to eleven. It’s Yoona from the Dance department. She’s cute—big eyes, short skirt, smells like...
Oh god.
She steps closer, smiling shyly, and the scent hits me. Usually, Yoona smells like vanilla and jasmine. It’s a scent that used to make me puff my chest out and think about buying her a drink.
Today, it smells like someone set a bouquet of plastic flowers on fire and then doused it in expired cough syrup.
My stomach gives a violent, wet lurch. I have to swallow hard, fighting the sudden urge to gag.
"Hey, Yoona," I manage, my voice sounding a little strangled. "You look... great."
"I haven't seen you around lately," she says, stepping into my personal space. She’s flirting. She’s releasing pheromones. She’s trying to be appealing.
It’s chemical warfare.
The sweetness is sickening, thick and oily in the back of my throat. It coats my tongue. I stop breathing through my nose, switching to shallow mouth-breaths, but I can still taste it. It’s repulsive. It’s wrong. It’s not him.
The thought flashes through my brain before I can stop it. My traitorous biology doesn't want vanilla. It wants winter air. It wants that sharp, clean bite of ginseng and ink that makes my knees weak.
"Yeah, been busy," I say, leaning back. I’m leaning back so far I’m in danger of tipping the chair over. "You know. Empire building. Alpha stuff."
Yoona giggles again, oblivious to the fact that I’m turning a shade of pale usually reserved for Victorian ghosts. She reaches out, her hand brushing my bicep. "Well, if you're free this weekend, maybe you could... help me with something?"
Her scent spikes with hopefulness.
My gorge rises. I clamp my lips together, feeling sweat break out on my forehead. It’s a physical rejection, a biological "Access Denied" flashing in red letters across my vision. My body is screaming at me to get away, to scrub the scent off, to find my mate.
I don't have a mate, I scream back internally. I have a nuisance.
"You okay, bro?" Seungchan asks, frowning around a mouthful of kimbap. "You look kinda sweaty."
"I'm fine," I wheeze, forcing a smile that probably looks like a grimace of pain. "Just... hot in here. Is the AC broken?"
"It's like sixty degrees," Seungchan points out.
Yoona leans in closer, concerned. "You do look a little feverish, Oppa."
The wave of vanilla is suffocating. I can’t do this. If I stay here for another ten seconds, I’m going to vomit all over her designer shoes, and that is not the legacy I want to leave at Haneul University.
I stand up so fast my chair screeches against the linoleum, startling everyone at the table.
"I have to go," I blurt out.
"Go? Go where?" Seungchan asks. "You haven't touched your lunch."
"I just remembered I have a... thing. A meeting. With a... professor." I’m backing away, stumbling slightly. "Very important. Brand management crisis. Huge deal."
"But—" Yoona starts.
"Catch you later!" I yell, turning on my heel and practically sprinting toward the exit.
I burst out into the hallway, gasping for air that doesn't smell like a candy shop explosion. I lean against the cool metal of the doors, squeezing my eyes shut as my stomach slowly settles.
I’m broken. I’m actually broken. I can’t flirt. I can’t date. I can’t even stand near an Omega without feeling like I’ve got food poisoning.
I pull my phone out, staring at my reflection in the black screen. I look terrified.
"Damn you, Kang Donghwa," I whisper to the empty hallway. "Damn you and your magic dick."
"I can't make it to the mixer tonight," I say, my voice sounding painfully stiff. "I have... a lot of reading to do."
Yein, a sophomore with doe eyes and a scent that usually smells like fresh strawberries but currently smells like a dumpster fire behind a candy factory, blinks at me.
"Reading? But Oppa, it’s Friday. You never study on Fridays.
You said Fridays are for—and I quote—'making memories and bad decisions. '"
I wince. Past-Sihwan really needs to learn when to shut up.
"That was the old me," I lie through my teeth, taking a subtle step back to get out of her scent radius. My stomach is doing somersaults. "The new me is... academic. Very serious. I’m aiming for the Dean’s List."
Yein looks at me like I just announced I’m joining a monastery. "The Dean’s List? But didn't you pay Seungchan to write your last essay with a crate of protein bars?"
"That is a baseless rumor," I say, sweating. "Anyway, gotta go. The library calls. Books. Knowledge. Power."
I pivot on my heel and speed-walk away before I can vomit on her shoes.
"Focusing on my studies." It’s the flimsiest excuse in the history of excuses. I’m a Visual Design major; half my homework involves looking at fonts and deciding if they feel "aggressive" or "submissive." I don’t need to be in the library on a Friday night. Everyone knows it. I know it.
And apparently, he knows it too.
I feel the prickle on the back of my neck before I even look up. It’s that distinct, magnetic pull—like a fishhook snagged in my chest, tugging me in a specific direction.
I glance down the corridor, near the vending machines.
Kang Donghwa is leaning against the wall, looking like a high-fashion ad for depression. He’s got a can of black coffee in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of those oversized black trousers. He’s not doing anything. He’s just standing there.
But he’s looking right at me.
And he’s smirking.
It’s not a friendly smile. It’s a sharp, knowing curve of his lips that says, I know exactly why you’re running away from the pretty girl, Hyung.
My face heats up, a flush of humiliation crawling up my neck.
He knows I’m lying. He knows I’m not going to the library.
He knows I’m going to go home, lock myself in my room, and miserably jerk off while thinking about his stupid tattoos and his stupid knot because my body has decided it’s allergic to everyone else.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, his dark eyes locking onto mine over the rim of the can. The scent flares—a sudden, sharp spike of pheromones that aren't mine. It washes over me, cold and crisp, cutting through the nausea Yein’s perfume left behind.
For a second, my knees feel weak. The relief of his scent—even from this distance—is pathetic. I want to walk over there and bury my face in his neck just to stop feeling sick.
The thought horrifies me.
Donghwa tilts his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. Go on then, his expression seems to say. Go study.
I grit my teeth, adjust my backpack strap, and glare at him with as much venom as I can muster. I turn the corner sharply, marching toward the library like it’s actually my destination, cursing the day he transferred here with every step.