Chapter Twenty-One #2
"You wouldn't," I gasp, a genuine spike of fear shooting through my gut. My mind flashes to every bad movie I’ve ever seen. He’s going to whip me. He’s actually going to beat my ass in my own gym. "Donghwa, put that down, you crazy b—"
He doesn't hit me. instead, he lunges for my hands.
"Shut up," he grunts.
He grabs my wrists, his grip like iron, and yanks them violently downward. I yell, trying to jerk away, but he’s got gravity on his side. He forces my arms down past the sides of the bench, dragging them underneath the metal frame.
"Hey! Let go!"
I struggle, twisting my shoulders, but he’s fast. Too fast. He loops the leather belt around my wrists and the metal support beam of the bench in one fluid motion. I hear the buckle rattle, then the tight, constricting pull as he cinches it down.
"Stop!" I roar, bucking my hips, slamming my chest into the padding.
He ignores me, jerking the belt tighter until the leather bites into my skin, locking my wrists together underneath me. He secures it with a final, decisive tug.
I’m trapped.
I tug against the restraint, panic flaring hot and bright in my chest. It holds firm. My arms are pinned beneath the bench, leaving my upper body completely immobilized, face pressed into the vinyl.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I shout, breathless and furious. "Untie me! This isn't funny!"
Donghwa doesn't answer immediately. The weight lifts off my back, and I suck in a greedy breath, but the relief is short-lived. I look up, my eyes instinctively finding the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall in front of us.
The reflection stares back, mocking me.
I look like a wreck—face flushed red, hair a sweaty disaster, taped-up hands bound beneath the bench like a criminal.
And looming over me is Donghwa. He looks infuriatingly calm, adjusting his cuffs, his dark hair barely ruffled.
He stands behind me, staring at my reflection with those heavy, lidded eyes, a look of dark satisfaction on his face that makes my stomach do a traitorous flip.
"You talk too much," he says simply, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "I told you I prefer action."
"I'm going to kill you," I seethe, watching in the mirror as he steps closer to my hips. "I swear to god, Donghwa, when I get out of this—"
He cuts off my threat by gripping the waistband of my gym shorts.
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Wait. What are you—"
He doesn't wait. With a sharp, unceremonious yank, he drags my shorts and boxers down in one go.
The air conditioning hits my skin, a shocking rush of cold against the heat of my body. I gasp, my face burning as I watch the fabric pool around my knee in the mirror. I’m completely exposed. My ass is bare, pale compared to my tanned legs, sticking up in the air for him—and the mirror—to see.
Donghwa leans in without warning, his chest slamming down over my back like a weighted barbell.
The sudden pressure shoves my face deeper into the vinyl, my cheek squishing against the padding.
One big hand clamps onto my jaw, fingers digging into the hinge like he's prying it open for inspection.
I buck once, hard, but his weight pins me solid—no give, no escape.
"I'm teaching you a lesson," he growls right against my ear, breath hot and ginseng-sharp.
Then his mouth crashes down on mine. It's not a kiss—it's a takeover.
His lips bruise mine, tongue thrusting past my teeth forcefully, commanding.
I snarl into it, trying to bite, but he anticipates, nipping my lower lip sharp enough to sting and draw a copper tang.
His pheromones hit like a gut punch—winter bite flooding my lungs, thick and all-consuming, short-circuiting every nerve.
My brain fuzzes out. My cock twitches against the bench, and I melt, opening wider, sucking on his tongue like a man starved.
Heat coils low in my gut, slick want pooling despite the rage still simmering.
He pulls back abruptly, leaving me gasping, lips wet and swollen, chasing air that tastes like him.
"You're a fucking idiot," he says, voice gravel-rough, eyes locked on mine in the mirror. "You really think I give a shit about some scrawny omega when I've got an ass like this under me?"
His free hand clamps down on one cheek, squeezing hard—fingers digging into muscle, spreading me open just enough to make cool air ghost my hole.
I gasp, high and involuntary, hips jerking forward on instinct.
Then that hand slides up, thumb tracing the crease before a single finger circles my rim—light, teasing, barely-there pressure that sends sparks shooting up my spine.
"Fuck," I choke out, hating how it comes out needy instead of pissed. My hole clenches around nothing, body begging even as my brain screams to fight.
Donghwa's teeth graze my earlobe, a sharp little nip that sends a jolt straight down my spine. His voice rumbles right there, hot breath fanning my skin, all gravel and zero patience.
"I never approached that annoying omega," he says, low and pissed, like I'm the one wasting his time.
"Didn't even know he was your ex. The only reason I couldn't tell that little limpet to fuck off was your stupid pride.
If I could say I had a partner out loud, I wouldn't have to play nice with clingy try-hards wasting their pheromones on an alpha who can't even smell them anymore.
Not when I've got a delicious-smelling alpha mate right in the same damn building. "
His words hit like a fist to the gut—half vindication, half fresh humiliation. Mate. He actually said it. Out loud. Like it's not the most fucked-up word in the dictionary for two Alphas like us.
I open my mouth to fire back—something vicious about his inflated ego or how he’s still full of shit—but then his fingers move.
Two of them now, thick and relentless, sinking deep into my hole with zero warning.
They curl inside me, pressing up against that spot with intent, like he memorized the exact angle from last time and saved it for future reference.
A broken moan tears out of me before I can choke it back, my hips jerking forward like they’ve got a mind of their own.
My cock’s trapped under me, crushed against the vinyl bench, every pulse sending a fresh wave of frustrated need through me.
Precum’s already slicking the padding beneath me, the rough friction just shy of unbearable.
Pleasure spikes through me, sharp and white-hot, short-circuiting every thought except more, fuck, more.
I bite down on the bench to muffle another pathetic sound, but it’s useless.
My body’s arching into his touch like some desperate omega in heat.
And the worst part is I like it. I like how he doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate—just takes, like he knows exactly what I need even when I’m too stubborn to admit it.
God, I hate him.
(And maybe that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told myself.)
"Sh-shut up," I gasp, but it comes out wrecked, my voice cracking on the edges. My hole clenches around his fingers, greedy despite myself, pulling him in deeper. Sweat drips from my temple, stinging my eyes, and all I can smell is him—winter bite drowning out everything else.
I finally drag in a ragged breath, the vinyl sticking to my cheek like glue.
My head's spinning, every nerve lit up from his fingers working me open like he owns the place.
But that doesn't stop the venom bubbling up my throat.
I twist my head just enough to glare at him in the mirror, my voice coming out hoarse and pissed.
"You like it," I rasp, hating how breathy it sounds. "You fucking like making me jealous. Admit it, you prick. Gets you off, doesn't it? Watching me lose my shit over some omega trash."
Donghwa stills. His fingers flex inside me one last time—deliberate, twisting just enough to make my toes curl—before he blows out a heavy breath against my neck. It's warm, frustrated, like I'm the biggest pain in his ass. Which, fair, considering where his hand currently is.
"Fine," he mutters, voice low and edged with warning. "That's enough mouth from you. We'll do this the hard way then."
He yanks his fingers free in one smooth pull.
The sudden emptiness hits—my hole clenching around nothing, aching and slick, a pathetic whine slipping past my lips before I can bite it back.
I watch him in the mirror, heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped animal.
He leans back on his heels, casual as hell, and grabs the hem of his shirt.
Time slows. The black fabric peels up slow, inch by inch, revealing that lean swimmer's build—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every ridge of muscle cut sharp and functional.
No bulk like mine, just pure, leveraged power.
And then the tattoos. Fuck. That massive ink sprawl explodes into view: the snarling tiger curling over his pec, the demon mask glaring from his shoulder, plum blossoms twisting dark and aggressive up his arms. It's gangster poetry, raw and hidden, like he inked rebellion right into his skin.
My mouth goes dry. My cock throbs against the bench, and I can't tear my eyes away. He tosses the shirt aside like it's nothing, silver rings catching the light on his fingers.
He shifts forward again, knees bracketing my thighs, and those big hands land on my ass. Kneading. Rough palms digging into the muscle, spreading me open wide enough that cool air teases my hole. Preparation. Like I'm meat on a cutting board.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I blurt, nerves twisting sharp in my gut. My voice cracks—half demand, half plea. Bound like this, ass up and helpless, every survival instinct's screaming while my dick leaks like a faucet.