Chapter Twenty-Five #7
I look at Donghwa, who is currently bickering with his sister about glitter, and the bond hums in my chest—a warm, steady vibration of contentment. I take a sip of tea, and for the first time all day, I don't feel like an imposter. I just feel... welcome.
After a good half hour of back and forth the family conversations lulls, dissolving as the three siblings bicker and Donghwa's parents watch with faint amusement.
I need to move. The nervous energy that’s been vibrating under my skin since we drove through the gates hasn't fully dissipated, and sitting still is making my leg bounce again.
I murmur a quiet excuse about stretching my legs and stand up. Nobody seems to mind. Donghwa is busy trying to prevent Dohwa from looking up my swim meet schedule on her phone, so I take the opportunity to drift toward the perimeter of the room.
I wander over to a heavy mahogany side table near the bay window, drawn by the clutter of frames.
It’s fascinating. In my house, photos are staged.
We hire photographers, we coordinate outfits, we pick the best take.
Here, the frames are mismatched—silver, wood, ceramic—and crowded together like a chaotic little crowd.
My eyes snag on a small, tarnished silver frame near the back.
I lean in, squinting. It’s a black-and-white photo of a small boy, maybe seven or eight.
He’s sitting at a piano—the same piano that’s sitting five feet away from me right now.
His legs are too short to reach the pedals, dangling in mid-air, but his posture is terrifyingly perfect.
His back is straight, his small hands are poised over the keys like claws, and his face. ..
I let out a soft breath. He has the exact same expression he wears in our lectures when he’s bored by the curriculum. Intense. Serious. Like he’s trying to decode the secrets of the universe through sheer force of will.
"He was eight in that one."
I jump slightly, turning to find Donghwa’s mother standing at my elbow. I didn't even hear her approach. She moves with a quiet grace that seems impossible.
She smiles at me, warm and conspiratorial, and reaches out to pick up the frame. She holds it gently, her thumb brushing over the glass with a look of such profound fondness that it makes my chest ache a little.
"He started lessons at six," she says softly, looking down at the mini-Donghwa. "We didn't expect much. This piano has been in the family for four generations, but truth be told, we mostly used it as a very expensive shelf for flower arrangements. None of us have a musical bone in our bodies."
She laughs lightly, a self-deprecating sound.
"But Donghwa... he sat down on that bench and it was like he’d been there in a past life.
He was instantly obsessed. We couldn't get him to come to dinner.
We couldn't get him to go outside to play.
He would just sit there for hours, frowning at the keys until he got the sound exactly right. "
I look from the photo to the real piano, imagining a tiny, stubborn Donghwa refusing to leave the bench. It tracks. It tracks so hard.
"He’s... intense," I offer, unsure if that’s the right word to use with his mother.
"He is," she agrees, placing the photo back on the table with care. She sighs, but it’s a happy sound. "It was only downhill from there, I’m afraid. We realized very quickly that he had an artistic soul. Which is a bit of a genetic anomaly for us."
She gestures vaguely around the room, at the bookshelves lined with legal texts and history volumes.
"We’re a very boring family, Sihwan. Lawyers, judges, scholars.
We deal in facts and precedents. And then here comes Donghwa, painting on the walls and playing concertos before he could do long division.
By the time he was fifteen, we had enough of his sketches and canvases to open our own art gallery. The attic is still full of them."
She shakes her head, looking over at her son, who is now holding his head in his hands while his sisters cackle.
"We should have guessed, really," she murmurs, almost to herself. "The way he powered through everything. The sheer stubbornness of him. We should have known he was an Alpha even before he presented."
I blink, my attention snapping back to her. "You... didn't know?"
It seems obvious to me. Donghwa screams Alpha. He smells like winter and dominance. He walks into a room and the air pressure changes.
She turns her gaze back to me, her smile turning wry.
"It was a surprise," she admits. "A big one. You see, the Kangs have been a Beta line for generations. My husband is a Beta. I’m a Beta. His sisters are Betas. We assumed Donghwa would be the same. We raised him to be gentle, to be studious."
"You mean Donghwa is the only Alpha?" I ask, staring at her. "In the whole immediate family?"
She nods, a mischievous grin spreading across her face that makes her look decades younger.
"The only one," she confirms, leaning against the table. "He really pulled quite the surprise on us. You can imagine the chaos. We were a quiet, scholarly household of Betas, and suddenly we had this... force of nature stomping around, growing three inches a month and smelling like a winter storm."
She laughs, shaking her head at the memory.
"Honestly, none of us knew what to do with him.
We didn't have any firsthand knowledge about Alpha cycles or ruts.
We had to buy books! Can you believe that?
We were reading manuals on how to handle a teenage Dominant Alpha like we were trying to assemble furniture. "
I snort, trying to picture this elegant woman reading a pamphlet titled So Your Son Is Growling at the Mailman.
"It was an enlightening few years," she sighs, though her eyes are dancing.
"But I’m afraid we created a monster. We were all just so.
.. excited. To have a Dominant Alpha emerge in our line?
It was like winning the genetic lottery.
My husband was over the moon. The girls treated him like a little prince. "
She glances over at Donghwa, who is currently ignoring his sisters while they try to braid his hair.
"He could have gotten away with murder," she admits in a conspiratorial whisper.
"We doted on him terribly. We were just so proud of him, you see? But because of that, he’s never really had anyone tell him 'no.' He’s used to being the biggest, strongest thing in the room, and he’s used to everyone clearing a path for him. "
She turns back to me, her expression sharpening playfully.
"That’s why I’m so glad you’re here, Sihwan. Finally, someone on his level." She reaches out and pats my arm, her grip surprisingly firm. "He needs someone who won't just roll over for him. He needs to be kept in check. So, do me a favor?"
She winks. "Give him hell for us, will you?"
I grin back, feeling a spark of genuine amusement. "Don't worry, ma'am. Giving him hell is basically my major."
She laughs, delighted, and moves off to check on the tea, but I stay by the table, my mind reeling.
It makes sense. It makes so much sense it’s actually annoying.
Dominant Alphas are rare enough as it is. Usually, you need two strong Alpha parents to produce one, like my family. My house is a constant pheromone war zone, everyone posturing and competing for air. But for a Dominant to pop up randomly in a line of Betas? That’s statistically almost impossible.
It explains the atmosphere in here. I realized, with a jolt, that I haven't smelled a single pheromone since I walked in the door—except for Donghwa’s and my own. The house is neutral. Silent.
No wonder he turned out the way he did. He’s a genetic anomaly. He’s a concentration of power in a vacuum. He didn't have to fight for dominance growing up because he was born holding all the cards. He’s not just an Alpha; he’s a freak of nature.
I look over at him across the room. He’s batting his sister’s hands away, looking bored and lethal and unfairly attractive.
A genetic anomaly, I think, feeling a heavy, possessive curl of heat in my gut. And somehow, I’m the one who gets to handle him.
The dining room table is groaning.
I mean that literally. There is so much food piled onto the dark, polished wood that I’m genuinely concerned for the structural integrity of the furniture.
Mrs. Park wasn't kidding about the short ribs. There’s a mountain of galbi-jjim, steaming and glistening in a dark soy glaze, flanked by an army of banchan dishes that stretch from one end of the table to the other.
It’s a feast. In my house, a spread like this would be for a business merger or a holiday photo op. Here, it’s just Friday.
"Eat, eat!" Donghwa’s mother commands, waving her chopsticks like a conductor’s baton. "Sihwan, you’re too polite. You have to fight for the good pieces in this house or the girls will inhale them."
"We do not inhale," Dohwa protests around a mouthful of spinach. "We graze. Elegantly."
"You graze like locusts," Donghwa mutters, reaching for the water pitcher.
He doesn't get to it. Before his hand can even close around the handle, Dohwi has snatched the pitcher up. She doesn't pour herself a glass; she pours his, filling it to the brim with an exaggerated, fluttering care, then sets it down in front of him with a saccharine smile.
"Here you go, our precious baby brother," she coos, batting her eyelashes so hard I’m surprised she doesn't take flight. "Is the water temperature okay? Do you need a straw? Do you need us to chew the ice for you?"
Donghwa freezes, his hand hovering over the glass. He closes his eyes, taking a deep, suffering breath through his nose.
"I hate you," he says flatly. "I hate you both so much."
"Aww, he hates us," Dohwa says to me, leaning over the table with a conspiratorial grin. "That’s Donghwa-speak for 'I love you and I’d be lost without your guidance.'"
"It really isn't," Donghwa argues, picking up his chopsticks and stabbing a piece of beef with unnecessary violence.