Chapter Twenty-Two #3
"Get up!" I hiss, hopping on one foot as I try to locate a pair of boxers in the debris field that is my floor. "Get the fuck up, Donghwa!"
Donghwa grunts, shifting sluggishly. He blinks one eye open, looking at me with the glazed, hollowed-out expression of a man who has spent the last seventy-two hours depleting his entire life force. His voice is a wreck, a deep, raspy scrape of sound.
"What?" He sounds like he’s gargling gravel. He tries to roll over, pulling the sheet with him. "Is the building on fire?"
"Worse!" I screech, whispering-screaming as I snatch a pair of sweatpants from the lampshade—why are they on the lampshade?—and hop into them. "My mother! My mother is at the door!"
Donghwa blinks. The information travels slowly through the fog of his post-rut brain. "Your... mom?"
I scramble over a pile of towels, snatching up a t-shirt that looks vaguely clean, and hurl it at his face.
"Put it on!" I snap, grabbing a pair of grey joggers from the floor and throwing those too. They hit him in the chest. "Get decent!"
The sound of the front door unlatching echoes through the apartment like a gavel slamming down in a courtroom.
Donghwa freezes, his eyes snapping wide. The fog of sleep vanishes instantly, replaced by a sharp, terrifying clarity. He looks at me, then at the door, and moves.
I’ve never seen a man put on pants that fast in my life.
He yanks the grey joggers up, stumbling slightly as he hops on one foot, and drags the t-shirt over his head in a single fluid motion.
It’s impressive, athletic even, but it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter if he's fully clothed.
It doesn't matter if he suddenly pulls a tuxedo out of his ass and starts reciting Shakespeare.
I look around the room, and a whimper dies in my throat.
We are screwed.
The bedroom looks like a bomb went off inside a laundry factory.
The sheets are half on the floor, tangled in a heap that screams “we did unspeakable things here.” There are empty water bottles, protein bar wrappers, and—oh god—the distinct, shiny gleam of a lube bottle tipped over on the nightstand.
But the visual damage isn't even the worst part. It’s the smell.
The air is thick enough to chew on. It’s a heavy, suffocating cloud of burnt cedar and musk, layered with the sharp, biting scent of winter air. It smells like aggression. It smells like sex. It smells, undeniably, like two Alphas spent the last three days tearing each other apart.
"Sihwan?"
Her voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and polished as a diamond cutter. It’s followed by the terrifying, rhythmic click-clack-click-clack of designer heels on hardwood.
I lunge for the bedroom doorway, my hand outstretched to grab the handle, desperate to slam it shut and buy us thirty seconds to maybe shove Donghwa out the window or set the room on fire as a distraction.
But I’m too slow. My legs are still jelly from three days of marathon sex, and my coordination is shot.
I barely make it to the frame when she appears.
Choi Yerim, Executive Director of Oh! Paradise Hotels and the woman who once told me my triceps looked "sad" at a family dinner, stops dead in the hallway. She is immaculate. Of course she is. She’s wearing a cream-colored power suit that probably costs more than my car, her hair is coiffed into a razor-sharp bob, and her makeup is flawless.
She stands there, a beacon of corporate perfection, staring into the abyss of my degeneracy.
I freeze, gripping the doorframe like a lifeline. Behind me, I can feel Donghwa’s presence, a looming heat radiating off his back.
My mother’s eyes don't look at me first. No, that would be too easy. She lifts her chin, her nostrils flaring delicately as she inhales. The expression that crosses her face is one I’ve only seen her make when a waiter brings her the wrong vintage of wine—a mix of confusion and profound distaste.
She smells it. There is no way she doesn't. The air is so thick with Alpha—with musk, sweat, and the undeniable, pungent tang of spent sex—that it’s practically visible.
Her gaze drops. She scans the room over my shoulder.
She sees the pile of clothes. She sees the twisted, ruined sheets. She sees the lube bottle on the nightstand. And then, her eyes land on Donghwa.
Donghwa is standing by the bed, barefoot, wearing my grey joggers that are slightly too short for his long legs and a t-shirt that is definitely too tight across his chest. His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen, and he has a fresh, purple bruise on his neck that I definitely put there around 3:00 AM.
He doesn't cower. Because he’s Donghwa, and he lacks the survival instinct God gave the rest of us, he just stands there and blinks at her, face impassive.
My mother’s gaze snaps back to me. Her eyes narrow into slits.
"Sihwan," she says, her voice dangerously calm. "What is all this?"
My brain short-circuits.
I open my mouth, and a hundred lies die on my tongue.
We were wrestling. No, the room smells like a brothel.
He’s my personal trainer. No, personal trainers don't sleep over for three days and leave hickeys.
I’m being robbed. No, he’s wearing my favorite sweatpants.
There is no explanation for two Alphas smelling like this unless they were trying to kill each other or screw each other. And since we aren't bleeding, the verdict is damning.
I look at her. I look at the disaster behind me. I look at Donghwa, who is watching me with a sudden, sharp intensity, waiting to see if I’m going to throw him under the bus.
If I tell her the truth—that I accidentally bonded with a freshman rival and we just spent a rut hate-fucking—she will have an aneurysm. She will disown me. She will cancel my credit cards and scrub my name from the family registry before lunch.
But if I lie... if I spin this right...
I swallow hard, my throat clicking. I straighten my spine, trying to summon some shred of dignity despite the fact that I’m barely standing upright.
I let out a shaky breath and gesture vaguely toward the six-foot-three disaster standing in the middle of my room.
"Mom," I say, my voice cracking only a little. "This is... my boyfriend."
I turn slightly, gesturing back to the terrifying woman in the cream suit, praying Donghwa doesn't say anything stupid.
"Donghwa, this is my mother."
I wait for the world to end. I wait for the walls to crumble, for the floor to open up and swallow me whole, or for my mother to simply vaporize me with her laser-vision glare.
But the explosion doesn't come.
Instead, Donghwa moves.
He steps forward, navigating the minefield of discarded boxers and empty water bottles with a grace that frankly pisses me off.
He stops three feet in front of her, brings his heels together, and executes a bow so perfect, so crisp and respectful, that you’d think he was wearing a tuxedo instead of my stretched-out grey joggers and a t-shirt that’s clinging to his chest for dear life.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Director Choi," Donghwa says, his voice rough from sleep but steady as a rock. He straightens up, meeting her eyes with a calm deference that screams breeding. "I apologize for the untidiness. We weren't expecting company."
My mother blinks. For a split second, the corporate mask slips.
Her eyes dart over him, sharp and assessing. She’s not looking at the clothes anymore; she’s looking at the bone structure, the posture, the way he holds himself. And she’s smelling him. I see her nostrils flare, just a fraction.
She smells the Alpha.
I cringe internally, my stomach doing a backflip.
In her world—in my world—Alphas don't date Alphas.
Alphas date Omegas. Alphas dominate. They breed.
They don't shack up with other Alphas in a pheromone-dense cloud that smells like a wrestling match gone wrong.
I can practically hear the gears turning in her head, calculating the social fallout, the biological impossibility, the sheer waste of my genetics.
And worse, she’s looking at the room. She sees the mess. She smells the aftermath. She knows, with absolute certainty, that her son—her trophy, her "Dominant" heir—was not the one calling the shots in this bed for the last three days.
I want to die. I genuinely want to cease existing.
But Choi Yerim didn't claw her way to the top of the hospitality industry by losing her cool in front of strangers.
She inhales deeply, smoothing the front of her cream blazer, and the mask slams back into place. A tight, polite smile stretches across her face. It doesn't reach her eyes.
"I see," she says, her voice light and airy, like we’re discussing the weather and not her son’s sexual deviancy. "And you are...?"
"Kang Donghwa," he supplies smoothly. "I'm a junior in the department. I study with Sihwan."
He lies about his year. Smart. Freshman would sound like cradle-robbing. Junior sounds like an equal.
My mother’s eyebrows lift a fraction. "Kang? Related to the Minister of Justice?"
Donghwa offers a small, self-deprecating smile. "My uncle."
Jackpot.
I watch the tension in my mother’s shoulders drop by exactly one inch. Old Money. Elite. Politics. Suddenly, the fact that he’s an Alpha isn't a dealbreaker; it’s a complication, sure, but a prestigious one. She looks at him with new eyes, reassessing his value.
"Well," she says, clasping her hands together, the picture of gracious hospitality. "It is lovely to meet you, Donghwa. Although I do wish the circumstances were a bit more... civilized."
She casts a pointed, withering look at a pair of my underwear draped over the lampshade.
"My apologies," Donghwa says again, lowering his head. "I'll ensure it's rectified immediately."
"See that you do." She turns her gaze to me, and the warmth evaporates instantly. Her eyes are cold, hard flint. "Sihwan. A word."
I swallow hard. "Mom, I—"
"Not now," she cuts me off, holding up a manicured hand. She looks back at Donghwa, her smile returning like a light switch flicking on. "Since you are... involved with my son, and you come from such a respectable family, we cannot have our first meeting be in a laundry pile."
She reaches into her purse, pulls out a sleek leather planner, and checks it, though I know for a fact she has her schedule memorized down to the minute.
"You will come for dinner," she announces. It’s not a question. "This Saturday. Seven o'clock. At the main house."
My blood runs cold. "Mom, I don't think—"
"I insist," she says, her eyes boring into mine, daring me to argue. "Your father will want to meet him. If this is serious enough for you to be... cohabitating in such a manner, then it is serious enough for a family introduction."
She snaps the planner shut and looks at Donghwa expectantly.
I choke. It isn't a polite cough or a startled gasp; it is a full-body malfunction that sounds like a dying engine.
"Dinner?" I wheeze, staring at my mother like she just suggested we sacrifice a goat in the living room. "This Saturday? Mom, that’s—we can’t. We’re... busy."
I grasp at straws, my brain spinning so fast I think I smell smoke. "Midterms are coming up. We have a group project. A massive one. For... branding. It takes all weekend. We literally cannot leave the apartment."
My mother’s smile doesn't waver, but her eyes sharpen into lasers. "Sihwan. You are a Junior. If you cannot manage a simple dinner engagement alongside your coursework, I worry about your ability to handle the workload when you take over the regional branch next year."
The threat hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Come to dinner, or I tell your father you’re incompetent.
"It's not about competence," I argue, my voice pitching up an octave. "It's about... scheduling! Donghwa is very busy. He has... school things. Orientations. Hazing. Whatever they do."
I risk a glance at Donghwa, pleading with my eyes. Back me up, I scream telepathically. Tell her you have a contagious disease. Tell her you’re leaving the country. Tell her you’re allergic to rich people food.
Donghwa catches my eye. For a second, his expression is blank, unreadable. Then, the corner of his mouth ticks up. It’s microscopic. If you didn't know him, you’d miss it. But I know him. I know exactly what that twitch means.
It means I am screwed.
He turns to my mother, clasping his hands in front of him, looking for all the world like a humble, grateful suitor instead of the demon who just spent three days wrecking my internal organs.
"We would be honored, Director Choi," Donghwa says, his voice smooth as velvet. "Sihwan is right, my schedule is tight, but for an invitation to the main house? I will make the time."
My jaw unhinges. I stare at him, betrayed. You traitor. You absolute snake.
My mother beams. It’s terrifying. "Wonderful. I knew you were a sensible young man. Unlike some people." She shoots a side-eye at me that withers my soul. "My husband will be very interested to meet a Kang. Don't be late. You know how your father gets about punctuality."
"Seven o'clock sharp," Donghwa confirms with a nod. "We wouldn't dream of keeping the Chairman waiting."
"Good." She snaps her purse shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
She takes one last, lingering look around the disaster zone of my bedroom, her nose wrinkling slightly as she catches a fresh waft of Eau de Rut.
"And Sihwan? Open a window. Immediately. It smells like a locker room in here. It’s undignified. "
"Yes, Mother," I mumble, staring at the floor.
She turns on her heel, executing a perfect pivot, and marches back down the hallway. I listen to the click-clack-click-clack of her heels retreating, holding my breath until I hear the front door open and close. The electronic lock chirps its cheerful little goodbye, sealing my fate.
Silence descends on the room. Heavy, oppressive silence.
I slowly turn my head to look at Donghwa.
He is still standing there, looking calm and collected in my too-tight t-shirt. As soon as he’s sure she’s gone, the polite mask drops, and a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
"You," I whisper, pointing a shaking finger at him. "You are a dead man."
"Seven o'clock, Saturday," he muses. "Better buy me a suit, Hyung. I don't think your dad is going to appreciate my leather jacket."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. I have four days to turn a sarcastic, tattooed, dominant freshman into the perfect submissive Omega-loving boyfriend my parents think I have.
I am absolutely going to die.