The words push me over, filthy and perfect, shredding the last thread of my control. My vision whites out. I come—hard, ripping through me like a gut punch—spurting thick ropes over his fist, painting the shower wall in sticky white streaks. A choked scream builds in my chest, but I clamp down on his palm, teeth sinking deep into the meat of his hand. Copper floods my mouth. I taste his blood, muffled cries vibratingagainst his skin as my hole spasms around his cock, milking him greedy and shameless.
"Fuck yes," he growls, low and wrecked, pounding through it. No mercy. He rides my orgasm like a wave, thrusts turning erratic, hips grinding deep. His forehead presses into my shoulder—sweat-slick, heavy—not biting this time, just anchoring. I shudder against his hand, tears pricking my eyes from the overload, every spurt dragging whimpers I can't kill.
Then it starts. The swell. His knot thickens at the base, hot and insistent, forcing my rim wider. Pain blooms—sharp, mind-numbing stretch that rips a sob from my throat into his palm. It bleeds into pleasure, twisted and filthy, nerves firing white-hot as he locks inside me. No escape. His cock pulses, emptying in heavy jets, flooding my guts with heat that seeps deeper than it should.
My legs buckle. Gone. I collapse, but he catches me—arm banding my chest like steel, hauling me back against him as we sink to the shower floor in a tangle of limbs. Water pounds us both now, scalding my raw skin. His knot throbs, still spurting lazy ropes inside me, keeping me stuffed full. I wince, head lolling back on his shoulder as his tongue drags up the side of my neck—wet, possessive laps over my scent gland.
I slump fully against him, drained to the bone, face burning under the spray. Chest heaving. Body humming with aftershocks I can't pretend away. This is my reality now—pinned and knotted on a locker room floor by the freshman who stole my crown. And fuck me, I like it. Too much. The humiliation curls hot in my gut, mixing with the sated ache, and I can't even muster the energy to hate myself for it. Not yet.
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday starts off deceptively normal. The sun is shining, my shoulder doesn't ache too badly from the "therapy" (read: Donghwa biting the hell out of me during his rut), and I’m walking across the quad with the stride of a man who owns the place. I’ve got my coffee, my fresh haircut, and a fragile sense of peace that I should have known was too good to last.
I spot the disturbance near the fountain before I hear it. A crowd has gathered, a mix of omegas and betas cooing over something in the center like they’re looking at a basket of puppies.
My first instinct is to check for Donghwa. Usually, if there’s a crowd, it’s because the Ice Prince is gracing the commoners with his presence while looking bored out of his mind. But the vibe is different. It’s not the hushed, thirsty awe that follows Donghwa. It’s loud, squeaky, and annoying.
I squint against the sunlight. Then the crowd parts slightly, and I see what they're fussing over.
Lee Sejun.
My stomach drops through the pavement.
He’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, swinging his legs. He’s wearing a pastel yellow sweater that’s three sizes too big, the sleeves pulled down over his hands to create those "sweater paws" that drive most Alphas insane with a need to protect him. He looks up, batting those massive Bambi eyes at a sophomore who looks ready to hand over his credit card information right then and there.
"Fuck," I whisper into my coffee cup.
Sejun. My ex. If you can call a two-week disaster a relationship. He’s the definition of a chaos agent wrapped in soft wool. He’s been studying abroad for a semester, and I had happily forgotten he existed.
I pivot on my heel, intending to take the long way to the design building. I’ll climb a trellis if I have to. I just need to not be seen.
"Sihwan!"
The voice cuts through the air like a dog whistle. High, sweet, and loud enough to stop traffic.
I freeze. Every head in the vicinity turns toward me. If I run now, I look like a coward. If I stay, I’m dead. I force a smile onto my face that probably looks more like a grimace and turn back around.
Sejun is already hopping off the fountain. He bounds over, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. He’s beaming, that innocent, wide-eyed look locked onto me.
"You’re here!" Sejun chirps, stopping right in front of me. He looks exactly the same. Soft brown hair, petite build, the kind of face that saysI’ve never done anything wrong in my lifewhile his hand is actively in your pocket stealing your wallet. "I didn't know if you'd be on campus this early."
"Sejun," I say, keeping my voice steady. "You're back."
"Just got in yesterday!" He steps closer, invading my personal space. "Did you miss me? You never texted me back when I sent you that picture of the Eiffel Tower."
"I was busy," I lie. I blocked his number three months ago.
"You're always so busy, Hyung." He pouts. Actually pouts. It’s a weaponized expression. "But look at you! You got even bigger."
He reaches out and squeezes my bicep.
The contact is bad enough, but then the wind shifts, and his scent wafts over me.
Before the bond—before Donghwa ruined my life—Sejun’s scent was pleasant. Vanilla and sugared milk. Sweet, harmless, appealing.
Now? It hits the back of my throat like expired dairy.
My stomach lurches violently. The sweetness is instantly nauseating. It clashes horribly with the phantom scent of frost that seems to permanently cling to my nose these days. My gag reflex twitches, and I have to swallow hard to keep my breakfast down.
