Chapter Twenty-One
Sihwan
Thwack.
The heavy bag swings violently on its chain, the leather groaning under the impact of my right hook.
Thwack.
That one is for the smirk. The smug, barely-there lift of the corner of his mouth that makes me want to commit felonies.
Thwack.
That one is for the text. For Sejun’s smarmy smile lighting up his phone screen like a neon sign advertising that I’m yesterday’s news.
I dance back on the balls of my feet, shaking out my hands.
My knuckles ache pleasantly inside the wraps, a dull throb that grounds me.
Sweat is pouring down my back, soaking the waistband of my shorts, stinging my eyes.
Good. I need this. I need to sweat out the humiliation, the rage, and the stupid, irrational jealousy that’s been eating a hole in my gut since I stormed out of his place.
It’s not that I care about Sejun. I don’t.
The guy was clingy and annoying, and his pheromones were like drowning in a vat of vanilla syrup.
But he was mine. And now he’s throwing himself at Donghwa, and Donghwa—that arrogant, stoic prick—is just standing there catching everything I drop.
It’s insulting. It’s like he’s going through my trash just to prove he can recycle better than me.
I grit my teeth and launch a flurry of jabs, left-right-left, burying my fist into the bag with a grunt of exertion.
"Stupid," I pant, driving a knee into the bag for good measure. "Arrogant. Thief."
I deliver one final, haymaker cross that sends the bag flying back so hard the chain rattles against the mounting bracket. I stand there, chest heaving, lungs burning, staring at the swinging leather until it slows to a dull sway.
"Fuck you," I tell the bag. It doesn't argue back.
I turn away, grabbing the towel off the bench and scrubbing it over my face and hair.
I’m a mess. My hair is plastered to my forehead, my tank top is clinging to my chest in damp patches, and I probably smell like a locker room.
But whatever. It’s my apartment's private gym.
I pay the exorbitant rent; I can smell like a swamp if I want to.
I grab my water bottle, unscrewing the cap and tilting my head back to chug. The water is lukewarm, but it hits the spot. I lower the bottle, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and instinctively check the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall.
Habit. I always check the form. Even when I’m miserable, I need to know the delts are popping.
I freeze. The water bottle slips from my fingers, hitting the rubber mat with a dull thud and rolling away, spilling a puddle across the floor.
I’m not alone in the mirror.
Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, is a figure dressed in black. He’s perfectly still, blending into the shadows of the hallway so well I didn't even hear him come in. Or maybe I was just making too much noise throwing my tantrum.
Kang Donghwa.
He’s watching me. His dark eyes are fixed on my reflection, heavy and unreadable, lids lowered in that bored, sleepy way that usually means he’s about five seconds away from ruining my life.
He looks infuriatingly put-together—black coat, black turtleneck, silver rings glinting under the harsh gym lights.
He looks like a model who took a wrong turn into a sweaty boxing gym.
And he’s looming. Just standing there, taking up all the oxygen in the room without moving a muscle.
My heart does a traitorous double-tap against my ribs. Not fear. Definitely not fear. It’s the bond, that stupid biological wire tripping in my brain, recognizing Alpha and sending a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin.
"Thought I might find you here," he says. His voice is low, a rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards and travel straight up my legs.
I whirl around, water splashing over my sneakers as I stomp away from the puddle. My hands curl into fists inside the wraps, the leather crunching.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I snap, the words tearing out of my throat raw and jagged. "I didn't invite you. Get out."
Donghwa doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. He just straightens up from the doorframe, unfolding that long, lean body with a casual grace that makes me want to punch him in the teeth. He takes a step into the room. Just one. But it feels like he just claimed the entire gym.
My shoulders hike up toward my ears. Every muscle in my back goes rigid, the flight instinct warring with the urge to swing at him. "I said get out, Donghwa. I'm not in the mood for your—"
The words die in my throat as he reaches behind him. Without breaking eye contact, he pushes the heavy gym door shut.
Click.
The sound of the lock turning echoes in the sudden silence, loud as a gunshot.
The air in the room shifts instantly. The smell of my own sweat and the rubber mats vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sharp drop in temperature.
It’s him. That scent. Cold winter air, bitter ink, and the earthy bite of ginseng.
It rolls over me in a heavy wave, thick and suffocatingly dominant, filling the small space until there's nothing else to breathe.
My knees give a traitorous wobble, my brain short-circuiting as the bond recognizes the source. Alpha. Mate.
"I would have preferred to have this conversation in the privacy of our apartments," Donghwa says, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and dangerous. He takes another step toward me, his dark eyes tracking a bead of sweat rolling down my neck with terrifying focus. "But since you’re being a brat and ignoring my calls, I suppose we’re going to have it out right here. "
I take a step back, my sneakers squeaking against the rubber mat. The sound is too loud in the sudden, pressurized silence of the gym. My back hits the heavy bag I was just abusing, and it swings into me, a dull nudge that feels like a warning.
"Don't," I snarl, raising my wrapped fists.
My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, half rage, half that treacherous, biological spike of arousal that I want to rip out of my own DNA.
"I'm serious, Donghwa. You take one more step, and I'm going to rearrange that expensive face of yours. I’m not playing your twisted little dominance games today. "
Donghwa stops. He tilts his head, looking me up and down with that maddeningly calm expression, like he’s deciding which part of me to dismantle first. Then, the corner of his mouth quirks up. A smirk. A sharp, predatory thing that cuts through his stoic mask.
"Who said we were playing?"
I get exactly one second to process the shift in his stance—the way his weight drops, muscles coiling beneath that black coat—before he launches.
He moves with terrifying speed for someone so tall, blurring the space between us. I barely have time to brace before he crashes into me.
"You crazy b—!"
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as 190 centimeters of solid Alpha slams into me. We go down hard, a tangle of limbs and cursing. I hit the mat back-first, the impact jarring my teeth, but I don't stay down. I’m an Alpha, dammit. I’m not rolling over for this prick.
I roar, twisting my hips and driving a knee up, trying to dislodge him.
He grunts, heavy and solid, his forearm pressing down on my throat.
I thrash, bucking hard enough to throw him off balance.
We roll, knocking into the dumbbell rack.
Metal clangs against metal, a deafening crash as a set of ten-pound weights topples to the floor, bouncing dangerously close to our heads.
"Get off me!" I yell, freeing one arm and swinging wild.
My fist connects with his shoulder, hard, but it’s like punching a brick wall. He barely flinches. He grabs my wrist, his grip like a vice, but I’m sweaty and slippery and fueled by pure, humiliated adrenaline. I wrench free, scrambling to my feet.
He’s up just as fast, his coat flaring. I lunge, throwing a hook that he ducks under with annoying grace. He grabs my waist, trying to haul me down again, but I twist, driving my elbow back with everything I have.
Thud.
I catch him right in the ribs. A solid, meaty hit.
Donghwa hisses, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second as the wind gets knocked out of him. He stumbles back a step, eyes narrowing, a flash of genuine irritation breaking through his cool facade.
"Ha!" I gasp, chest heaving, thinking I have the upper hand. "Not so tough now, are y—"
I don't even see it coming. He recovers instantly, ignoring the pain in his side. He steps into my space, using my own momentum against me. He grabs my arm, spins me around, and kicks the back of my knee.
My leg buckles. The world tilts.
"Down," he growls, the command vibrating straight through my spine.
He shoves me forward. I stumble, flailing, until my chest slams into the vinyl of the flat bench press.
"Fuck!"
Before I can push up, a heavy weight crashes onto my back, pinning me flat. Donghwa presses me into the bench, his chest heavy against my spine, trapping me between the leather and his hard body.
I cough, my lungs spasming as I try to suck in air against the unforgiving vinyl of the bench. My sweat makes everything slippery, but Donghwa’s weight is an anchor, pinning me flat. I thrash, my sneakers squeaking uselessly against the rubber floor, but I can’t get leverage.
Then I hear it the distinct, heavy clink of a metal buckle undoing, followed by the sharp hiss of leather sliding through loops.
My blood runs cold. I freeze, craning my neck just enough to see him out of the corner of my eye.
He’s pulling his belt off. It’s a thick, expensive strip of black leather with a heavy silver buckle that catches the overhead light.
He doubles it over in his hand, the leather snapping taut with a crack that echoes like a gunshot in the empty gym.