Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
The bond flares to life in my chest, a possessive, ugly roar. It infuriates me that he’s putting on this show for them. They don't know him. They just see the muscles and the smile. They don't know how pretty he looks when he’s unraveling, or how desperate he gets when he’s denied.
I watch him tease a group of Omegas, winking at them as they giggle and fumble with their wallets. He leans forward, hands on his knees, offering himself up as a target, the wet shorts pulling tight across his thighs.
My hands curl into fists in my pockets. I want to vault the barrier. I want to march up there, grab him by that soaked shirt, and drag him out of here. I want to shove him against the nearest wall and remind him that the only person allowed to make him a mess is me.
I hate that I want him. I hate that even now, when I’m furious with him for being a coward, my body is reacting to him with traitorous enthusiasm.
Sihwan laughs again as another balloon clips his shoulder, spinning him around. He catches his balance, grinning, water dripping from his eyelashes.
He looks beautiful. He looks cheap.
I stare at him, feeling a dark, gnawing hunger hollow out my stomach.
The air shifts before the crowd does. The collective mood curdles from mindless entertainment to something sharper, hungrier, and the source of the rot walks right up to the velvet rope.
Yoon Heesung.
He doesn't wait in line. He glides to the front, holding a neon green water balloon in one hand like it’s an oversized emerald. He smiles at the swimmers, a predator looking at a tank of feeder fish, and the noise of the crowd dips just enough to let his voice carry.
"Boring," Heesung singsongs, tossing the balloon lightly in the air and catching it. "I thought this was supposed to be a show. Why are you all hiding under those wet rags?"
I stiffen, my boots feeling heavy on the pavement. Beside me, Soyoung stops chewing her gum.
"Oh, he's starting shit," she murmurs, sounding delighted.
On the platform, Seungchan blinks, wiping water from his eyes. "Uh, what?"
"The shirts," Heesung says, gesturing vaguely with the balloon.
He turns to the crowd, flashing a conspiratorial grin that dazzles the front row.
"We didn't pay five thousand won to look at laundry, did we?
If you want our money, shouldn't the 'Alphas' of the swim team show us what they're actually working with? "
The crowd erupts. It’s instantaneous. A roar of approval, a chant starting from the back—Take it off! Take it off!—fueled by cheap beer and festival adrenaline.
My jaw locks tight enough to crack a molar. I see exactly what Heesung is doing. He’s bored, he’s petty, and he’s weaponizing the crowd’s thirst to humiliate them. Or maybe he’s just fishing. Maybe he suspects something and wants to see what swims to the surface when he drains the water.
"Don't do it," I mutter under my breath, my eyes fixed on Sihwan. "Don't be an idiot."
But Sihwan is an idiot. He’s a glorious, validation-starved idiot who is currently high on the adoration of two hundred people.
He looks at Heesung, then at the screaming crowd.
He doesn't see a trap. He sees a challenge.
He sees an opportunity to prove, once again, that he is the biggest, baddest, most desirable stud on campus.
The hesitation on his face lasts for a millisecond before his ego overrides his survival instinct.
Sihwan grins, a cocky, lopsided thing that usually works on me, too. He drops into a pose, hands going to the hem of his soaked white t-shirt.
"You want a show?" he shouts, his voice booming over the chant. "Fine! But you better have good aim!"
The crowd screams.
"No," I say, the word sharp, involuntary.
I take a step forward, intending to do what—yell? Cause a scene? But I’m boxed in by a wall of engineering students, and it’s already too late.
Sihwan grips the fabric and yanks it upward.
The wet cotton peels away from his skin with a wet sound I can’t hear but can imagine perfectly. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, shaking his hair out as he tosses the sodden shirt into the corner of the booth.
The reaction is visceral. A collective intake of breath followed by a deafening shriek of appreciation.
And admittedly, he looks incredible. Tanned skin, broad shoulders, water sluicing down the definition of his abs to soak into the waistband of his low-slung shorts.
He flexes, basking in it, turning to high-five a reluctant Seungchan.
Heesung isn't cheering. He’s watching. His eyes are narrowed, laser-focused, scanning Sihwan’s body like he’s reading a barcode.
"Now that's better!" Heesung calls out. He winds up and hurls the green balloon.
It’s a vicious throw, aimed low. Sihwan sees it coming. He laughs, pivoting on his heel with athletic grace, spinning his body to the left to let the balloon sail harmlessly past him.
The movement is smooth. Perfect.
And it exposes his back and left shoulder to the entire festival.
Time seems to slow down. The stage lights catch the water on his skin, highlighting every ripple of muscle, every drop of moisture, and the stark, undeniable discoloration on the curve of his trapezius, right where the neck meets the shoulder.
It’s not a bruise. It’s too defined for that. It’s a jagged, oval ring of raised, silvery-pink scar tissue. The kind of mark that doesn't fade. The kind of mark that comes from teeth sinking deep enough to break skin and lock down.
A mating bite.
The disaster unfolds in slow motion, a train wreck I can see coming but am powerless to stop.
Sihwan strikes his pose, chest heaving, water glistening on his skin, grinning like he owns the world. He has no idea. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that he just painted a target on his own back.
The silence hits first. It ripples outward from the front row, a wave of confusion that smothers the cheers.
Then, Heesung’s voice cuts through the sudden quiet like a scalpel.
"Wait," he says, loud enough for the microphone on the nearby stage to pick up the edge in his tone. He points a slender finger directly at Sihwan’s shoulder. "What is that?"
Sihwan’s grin falters. He blinks, confused by the shift in atmosphere. "What?"
"That," Heesung repeats, his voice pitching up in mock concern. "On your neck. Is that... is that a bite mark?"
The murmur starts then. A low, buzzing hum that rises from the crowd as hundreds of eyes zero in on the spot.
Sihwan freezes. I see the exact moment the realization slams into him.
His eyes widen, the color draining from his face so fast he looks like he’s about to faint.
His hand jerks up, slapping over the spot on his shoulder, covering the scar, but the damage is already done.
The movement is too jerky, too guilty. It’s a confession.
"Oh, shit," someone near me whispers. "Is he bonded?"
"I thought he was an Alpha?"
"Who bites an Alpha like that?"
My stomach drops. The air suddenly smells sour—the scent of burnt sugar and ozone. Sihwan’s distress pheromones are flooding the area, sharp and terrified, and they hit me like a physical blow to the chest.
"Move," I snarl.
I shove the engineering student in front of me hard enough to send him stumbling into his friend. I don't care. I don't care about the festival, or the crowd, or the optics. I need to get to him.
"Donghwa, wait—" Soyoung tries to grab my jacket, but I shake her off.
I elbow my way through the wall of bodies, my eyes locked on the stage.
Sihwan is backing up, stumbling over his own feet.
He looks small. For all his muscle and bravado, stripped of his secrets, he looks terrified.
Even Seungchan and the other swimmers are staring at him, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion.
They’ve seen him in the locker room a thousand times, but he’s always been careful, always had the tape, always had the excuse of an injury.
Now, there’s nowhere to hide.
"That's not just a little nip," Heesung calls out, his voice gleeful, carrying over the murmurs. He steps closer to the rope, playing to his audience. "That’s a mating bite. A deep one. It looks like our big, bad Dominant Alpha isn't so dominant after all."
Laughter ripples through the crowd—cruel, shocked laughter.
Sihwan flinches as if he’s been slapped. He hits the back wall of the booth, his chest heaving, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal looking for an exit.
"Shut up!" Sihwan yells, but his voice cracks. It lacks authority. It sounds desperate.
"I’m just confused!" Heesung continues, relentless. He turns to face the crowd, spreading his hands. "I mean, think about it. Sihwan is a Dominant Alpha. To bite him? To claim him like that? You’d have to be strong. Stronger than him."
I’m ten feet away. I’m shoving people aside now, ignoring their protests. Shut up, Heesung. Shut your mouth.
"It would have to be another Alpha," Heesung muses, tapping his chin. "Another Dominant Alpha. Someone who could pin him down and make him take it."
The crowd is eating it up. The gossip is spreading like wildfire, the speculation turning into a roar.
"But who?" Heesung asks, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that carries perfectly in the tense silence. "We don't have many of those in the Visual Design department. In fact... I can only think of one."
I break through the second-to-last row of people just as Heesung turns.
He doesn't look at the stage. He doesn't look at the crowd.
He looks straight at me.
His eyes lock onto mine, bright with malicious triumph. He smiles, a sharp, satisfied curve of his lips, and raises his eyebrows.
"Isn't that right, Donghwa?"
The silence that follows Heesung’s accusation isn’t empty. It’s heavy, pressurized, like the air in a room right before the windows blow out.
Two hundred heads turn.