Chapter Twenty-Four
Sihwan
The agreement was simple. Or, well, it was supposed to be.
Ruts only. Behind closed doors. Absolute secrecy.
We laid it out like a business contract, two Alphas trying to manage a biological disaster with as much dignity as we could scrape together. But dignity is a funny thing when you’re bonded to a guy who looks at you like he wants to devour you whole right in the middle of a crowded lecture hall.
Technically, we’re breaking every single clause of our little treaty. And I’m the one letting it happen.
It starts small. A brush of shoulders in the hallway that lasts a second too long.
A glance across the canteen that feels heavy enough to bruise.
Before the dinner with my parents, I would have bristled.
I would have puffed my chest out, flooded the air with my spiced rum scent, and turned it into a pissing contest.
Now? Now, when Kang Donghwa walks into the room, my pulse doesn't spike with aggression. It spikes with something else entirely. Something needy and pathetic that I refuse to name out loud.
Wednesday afternoon, three days since I've had him inside of me, the hallway's packed, bodies shoving past like rush hour on the subway.
Laughter bounces off lockers, omegas giggling in clusters, alphas posturing like it's a damn beauty contest. I weave through it all, shoulders squared, pretending I'm not scanning the crowd like a heat-seeking missile.
There he is. Donghwa, leaning against the wall by the vending machines, black coat draped over one arm.
Our eyes lock. His dark gaze pins me, unblinking, that stupid smirk tugging at his mouth.
Heat crawls up my neck. I should flip him off.
Should flare my pheromones and remind him who's supposed to be top dog.
Instead, I jerk my chin toward the bathrooms down the hall.
Subtle as a brick, but fuck it. The bell's about to ring anyway.
I duck inside the men's room, heart hammering like I've sprinted laps.
Empty, thank god—far wing, nobody uses it between classes.
I lean over the sink, splash water on my face, stare at my reflection.
What the hell are you doing, Sihwan? This is how you got knotted in the first place.
Chest tight, cock already twitching at the thought.
The door creaks. Footsteps. I don't turn around.
"Knew you'd crack first," Donghwa murmurs, voice low and gravelly, right behind me. His scent hits, wrapping around me like smoke. My knees go liquid. I grip the sink edge.
"Fuck off. We're in public." His big hands land on my hips, yanking me back against him. His hard length presses into my ass through our pants.
"You led me here, hyung." Hot breath on my neck. Teeth graze my earlobe. I hiss, but my body's already arching into it.
"This doesn't count as—" He spins me, slams me against the tile wall.
His mouth crashes down on mine, rough, demanding.
His tongue sweeps in, tasting like black coffee.
I groan into it, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer even as my brain screams abort.
Donghwa breaks the kiss, eyes blown dark.
"Quiet," he warns, hand diving between us. His zipper rasps. Cool air hits my skin as he shoves into my pants, fingers wrapping my cock—stroking once, twice—before sliding lower. I buck, biting my lip to stifle the whine.
"Donghwa—door's not locked—"
"Then don't make noise." Two fingers circle my hole, teasing, then push in slick and sure. No warning. I clench around him, vision spotting white. He curls them, hits that spot dead-on, and my head thumps back against the wall.
"Fuck," I gasp, thighs trembling. His thumb presses my taint, other hand muffling my mouth. Scissoring stretch burns sweet, prostate throbbing under the assault.
"Good boy," he breathes, free hand pinching my nipple through my shirt.
Asshole. I glare, but all that comes out is a choked moan as he adds a third finger, stretching me wide.
My cock leaks against his wrist, hips grinding down shamelessly.
A bell rings distantly—class starting—but who gives a shit. He nips my jaw.
"Come for me. Quick." His fingers piston faster. I shatter, biting his palm, spilling hot over his hand. He milks me through it, kissing my throat soft now, almost tender. He pulls out slowly. Zips me up like it's nothing. He steps back, smirking, wiping his hand on his thigh.
"See you in lecture." Winks. Saunters out. I slump against the wall, pants sticky, legs jelly. Our agreement's fucked. I don't even care.
The next afternoon I'm buried in this godforsaken marketing textbook, surrounded by Seungchan and the usual suspects, highlighters scratching paper like nails on a chalkboard.
The library's dead quiet, all fluorescent hum and page flips, my friends muttering about some group project.
I nod along, pretending the words on the page aren't blurring into gibberish.
I hear footsteps approach. Slow and deliberate, I recognize the tread. Donghwa strolls past our table, black coat slung over his shoulder, not a glance my way. Cool as ever. But then—fingertips ghost my jaw. Barely there. Electric and secret.
I don't flinch. Don't even blink. My heart slams anyway.
Under my lashes, I track him. His tall frame vanishing around the tall shelf at the end of the row.
Seungchan's yapping about font choices. I count. One minute. Two. By five, my skin itches, cock half-hard just from that touch. Fuck our "agreement." Fuck everything.
"Shit, forgot a reference book," I mutter, shoving my chair back. "Be right back."
They barely look up. Perfect.
I weave through the stacks, pulse thundering, dodging study carrels like landmines. The air's thick with old paper and dust, that musty library tang that clings to your throat. My sneakers squeak soft on the linoleum, every shadow jumping like it's about to rat me out.
One corner, then another. My heart's in my ears now, cock straining against my zipper. Stupid. Reckless. What if Seungchan follows? What if—
Strong arms snag me from the dark. I slam chest-first into Donghwa's grip, his palm clamping my mouth before the yelp escapes.
I bite back a moan—fuck—as he spins me, shoves me face-to-wall against the bookshelf.
Spines dig into my pecs, cool metal shelves biting through my shirt.
His chest molds to my back, all heat and hard lines, pinning me solid.
"Shh," he breathes, lips brushing my ear. Goosebumps riot down my arms. His erection grinds against my ass, thick and insistent through our pants, rolling slow like he's mapping me out.
I squirm, half-protest, half-grind back. Bastard knows exactly what this does. His free hand dives straight into my waistband, no fumbling, fingers wrapping my cock in a vise grip. His rough palm strokes up, thumb swiping the leaking slit, and my knees buckle. My vision whites out for a beat.
"Donghwa," I hiss into his hand, muffled and frantic. My hips jerk forward on instinct, chasing the drag. He's relentless—twist at the head, long pulls base to tip, his breath hot on my neck as teeth scrape the tendon there. He sucks a mark, hidden under my collar later, but right now? Claiming.
Pheromones flood the tight space, his winter bite cutting through the book stink, making my balls draw tight.
I buck into his fist, precum slicking the way, the wet schlick crude against the distant page-turns from the study tables.
Anyone could turn the corner. Hear this.
See the me humping a freshman's hand like a bitch in heat.
He chuckles low, the vibration rumbling through me. He nips my earlobe. "Quiet, hyung. Or come trying."
His thumb presses the frenulum—fuckfuckfuck—and I shatter, biting his palm hard enough to bruise. I spill hot over his knuckles, twitching, thighs quaking. He milks every drop, lazy squeezes, till I'm shuddering boneless against the shelves.
He pulls out slow, zipping me up. He steps back cool as ice, licking his fingers clean while I pant, wrecked. He winks. "Good boy. Back to studying."
Saunters off like he didn't just blueprint my ruin. I slump, forehead to a dog-eared art history tome, aftershocks buzzing. I'm so fucked.
Two days. That’s all it takes for my resolve to crumble.
I’m sitting in the back row of our Brand Management lecture, buzzing out of my skin. My leg bounces under the desk, a restless, jerky rhythm that’s probably annoying the hell out of the beta sitting next to me, but I can’t stop.
My eyes are glued to the back of a head three rows down.
Kang Donghwa.
Usually, the arrogant prick sits near the back, within arm’s reach, or at least close enough that his winter-air scent drifts over to settle my nerves. Today he’s practically in the front row, sandwiched between two eager-beaver sophomores, taking notes like a model student.
It’s pissing me off.
I glare at the nape of his neck, exposed by his short black hair. I want to bite it. I want to drag him back here and demand to know why he’s depriving me of my localized air supply. It feels like a slight. Like he’s doing it on purpose just to see how long I’ll last before I snap.
My skin feels too tight. The air in the room is stale, recycled AC that smells like dust and other people’s cheap deodorant. I need his scent. It’s an itch I can’t scratch, a low-level hum of anxiety in my gut that won’t shut up.
Fuck it.
I snatch my phone off the desk, shielding the screen from the professor’s line of sight. My thumb hovers over his contact name—saved simply as "Freshman" because I refuse to give him the dignity of his actual name in my contacts.
My pride screams at me to put the phone down. Don’t chase him. You’re the senior. You’re the King.
My body screams louder.
I type it out before I can second-guess myself.
Me: Clubhouse. After class.
Short. Commanding. Like I’m the one in charge here.