Chapter Seventeen
I’ve spent the last week dodging Omegas like they’re carrying the plague.
It’s a miserable existence for someone who usually thrives on attention like a plant needs sunlight.
But right now, the "sunlight" smells like rot, and it makes me want to hurl. I’ve become a master of the tactical retreat—ducking into stairwells, faking important phone calls, and wearing a face mask claiming I have a "lingering cough" just to keep people out of my personal bubble.
And Donghwa? I’ve been avoiding him too, but for entirely different reasons.
Every time I see that lanky, arrogant freshman in the hallway, the bond under my skin itches.
It’s not a metaphor. My actual skin, right where he bit me, heats up like a warning flare.
He doesn’t even have to look at me. He just walks by, smelling like a cold front, and my traitorous heart does a little stutter-step that pisses me off more than anything else.
I’m lying in bed on a Friday night, staring at the ceiling and trying to convince myself that staying in is a "strategic wellness choice" and not just me hiding, when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I roll over, groaning. It’s probably Seungchan asking if I want to hit the club, and I’m already preparing my excuse about food poisoning or a family emergency.
I pick it up. The screen blinds me for a second. It’s not Seungchan.
Unknown Number: It’s time.
Followed immediately by a pinned location.
My stomach drops through the mattress. I stare at the screen, the two words mocking me. I know exactly who it is. I didn’t save his number, but my brain supplies the voice reading the text in that deep, bored baritone that makes my hackles rise.
It’s time.
Rut.
"Fuck off," I say to the empty room, tossing the phone onto the duvet.
I’m not going. Absolutely not. I am not an on-call service dog for some moody artsy fartsy rich kid just because biology decided to play a practical joke on us. He can suffer. I suffered. I spent two days humping my mattress and crying; he can handle a little fever.
I cross my arms, staring at the wall.
...But if I don't go, he definitely won’t show up for my next one.
The memory of my own rut hits me—the cramping, the fever that felt like my bones were melting, the desperate, clawing need to be filled. I barely survived it alone. And Donghwa, as much of a prick as he is, made the pain stop. He made it feel... good.
My face heats up. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image of him shirtless, sweat-slicked, those dark tattoos curling over his shoulders, flashes behind my eyelids.
"God damn it," I hiss, sitting up and scrubbing a hand through my hair.
Curiosity is a disease, and apparently, I’m terminal.
I want to know what he looks like when he loses that stoic, unbothered mask.
I want to know if he falls apart the way I did.
And yeah, maybe a small, stupid part of me wants to feel that heavy, grounding weight of his pheromones again just to stop feeling so on edge.
I snatch the phone back up. The address is in a swanky district, obviously. Old money.
"Fine," I mutter, swinging my legs out of bed. "But I'm not staying for breakfast."
I grab a gym bag, throwing in a change of clothes and a bottle of water. I pause, looking at the lube on my nightstand, then scowl and leave it. He can provide the supplies if he expects me to do the heavy lifting.
I storm out of my apartment like I’m heading to a fight, not a hookup.
The drive over is a blur of city lights and aggressive lane changes. I blast EDM loud enough to rattle the windows, trying to drown out the voice in my head telling me this is a terrible idea. I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.
I’m doing this for me, I tell myself as I weave through traffic. This is just a transaction. Mutual aid. I’m practically a humanitarian.
But as I turn onto the quiet, tree-lined street where the GPS says he lives, my heart is hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break out, and I know it has nothing to do with charity.
Of course he lives in the Sky Palace.
I stand in the lobby, glaring at the marble floors that are polished to a mirror shine, feeling distinctly underdressed in my hoodie and gym shorts.
This isn't just an apartment building; it’s a fortress for the tax-bracket-immune.
My dad has money—loud, flashy, "look at my hotel chain" money—but this place screams quiet, generational wealth.
The kind that judges you for breathing too loudly.
The elevator ride to the penthouse takes long enough for my irritation to curdle into anxiety. I tap my foot against the floor, watching the numbers climb.
Penthouse. What a cliché.
The doors slide open to a private hallway that smells faintly of lemon polish. I step out, my sneakers squeaking offensively on the tile. There’s only one door at the end of the hall. It’s massive, dark wood, imposing as hell.
I march up to it, ready to give him an earful about making me drive across the city at midnight. I’m already formulating the insult—something about how he better have imported snacks—when I reach for the digital lock pad.
The air around the door feels heavy. Thicker.
My hand hovers over the numbers. I catch the scent before I even touch the screen. It’s not the usual crisp winter air scent Donghwa carries around campus. It’s dense, impenetrable. Like walking into a freezer that’s been stuffed with burning pine and raw, metallic ink.
My breath hitches. My skin prickles, the bite mark on my shoulder throbbing a warning beat.
I press my thumb to the scanner.
Click.
I don't even get the chance to grab the handle.
The door is ripped open from the inside with enough force to rattle the hinges.
I yelp, stumbling back, but a hand shoots out of the darkness. It clamps around my wrist like a vice, burning hot.
"Shit, wait—"
He yanks me across the threshold so hard my feet leave the floor.
The door slams shut behind us, sealing off the polite silence of the hallway, and suddenly I’m in the dark, drowning in pheromones that taste like ozone and aggression.
"Hey! Watch the—"
My back hits the entryway wall. Hard.
The air leaves my lungs in a wheeze. I blink, trying to adjust to the dim light, and find a face inches from mine.
Donghwa looks wrecked.
Gone is the bored, stoic freshman who looks at everyone like they’re bacteria.
The guy pinning me to the wall is unraveling at the seams. His hair is a damp, tangled mess falling into his eyes.
His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look entirely black, swallowing the iris.
He’s shirtless, sweat slicking his skin, making the black ink of the tiger on his chest look like it’s writhing in the shadows.
He’s panting, ragged, desperate breaths that fan hot against my neck.
His pheromones barrel into me like a battering ram.
One second I'm smart-mouthing the air, the next my dick's rock-hard, throbbing against my zipper, already leaking enough to soak through my boxers and make a goddamn wet spot on my shorts.
My knees buckle. I grab at his shoulders just to stay upright, but it's useless—his scent's got me pinned harder than his body, every muscle locked down, brain short-circuiting into pure, stupid need.
"Fuck—Donghwa, get a grip," I rasp, but it comes out weak, breathy. Like I'm begging.
He doesn't. Those black eyes fix on me, feral, pupils swallowing everything.
He slams me harder into the wall—plaster creaks somewhere behind my spine—and drags his teeth down my neck, sharp enough to sting, right over the bond mark.
Hot breath ghosts my skin. "Mine," he growls, voice wrecked, guttural, like it's scraped from the bottom of his chest.
I shiver, hard. Part of me wants to knee him in the balls—this guy's lost his shit, treating me like fresh meat—but my limbs won't fucking move.
His pheromones coil around me, thick and commanding, turning my bones to jelly.
All I can do is pant, chest heaving, cock twitching like it's got a mind of its own.
Then his hands are on my pants. He yanks them down my thighs in one brutal tug, cool air hitting my bare ass—boxers tangled at my knees now, dick springing free, slick and dripping.
His big palms clamp onto my cheeks, kneading rough, fingers digging bruises into muscle, spreading me open like he owns the view.
I yelp, whole body tensing, ass clenching under his grip. "Hey—asshole, warn a guy!" But even as I spit it, my hips jerk forward, chasing friction, traitorous hole fluttering empty. Humiliating. He's wrecking me two seconds in, and I'm leaking for more.
A flicker of real panic slices through the haze.
He's too far gone—eyes wild, breaths heaving, cock grinding against my thigh through his sweats like he can't decide whether to fuck me or eat me alive.
No lube in sight, no prep, and with the way his pheromones have me locked up tighter than a chastity belt, I couldn't stop him if I tried.
My hole clenches on nothing, already aching from memory, but raw? No fucking thanks.
"Donghwa, wait—shit, at least lube me up or—"
He spins me like I weigh nothing, one massive hand splaying across my bare stomach, slamming my back flush to the wall. I suck in a breath, staring up at him, bracing for the burn of him shoving in dry—
Then his knees hit the floor with a thud.
What the—
His palms clamp my hips, iron grips yanking them back, spreading my cheeks wide. Hot breath ghosts over my hole first—fuck—then higher, and before my brain catches up, his mouth engulfs my cock, wet and scorching.