Pure, unadulterated, white-hot rage.
It claws up my throat, tasting like acid. I spin on my heel, abandoning my caffeine fix and the crushed remains of the blueberry scone, and storm toward the exit. I push the glass door open with enough force that it bangs loudly against the stopper, the bell overhead jingling violently like a fire alarm.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel Donghwa’s gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades, heavy and mocking. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He saw me hiding behind the muffins like a coward, and he decided to put on a show.
You must be something special.
The words echo in my head, mocking me. Special. Sejun is about as special as a participation trophy.
I hit the sidewalk and keep walking, my stride long and aggressive. I don’t have a destination. I just need to put distance between myself and that table before I do something that lands me in front of the disciplinary committee, like dragging Sejun out of that chair by his perfectly styled hair or punching that smug look right off Donghwa’s face.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand while I'm halfway through a protein shake and a shitty action flick. I ignore it at first—probably Seungchan begging for a late-night gym sesh or some omega sliding into my DMs out of habit. But it buzzes again. And again.
I snatch it up, scowling.Come over now.The number's still not saved. But the tone and implication is unmistakable.
I scowl. It's Saturday night. His rut was two weeks ago. No way it's back already. Alphas don't cycle like that unless they're popping suppressants wrong or something's seriously fucked. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I should tell him to fuck off. Block the number. Pretend the bond doesn't itch under my skin like a fresh tattoo.
Instead, I grab my keys.
The drive over is a blur of shitty traffic and worse thoughts. Sejun draped over him at the coffee shop replays on loop. That smug tilt to Donghwa's mouth when he leaned in.You must be something special.My grip tightens on the wheel until my knuckles whiten. If he's summoning me for rut two-point-oh, fine. But if this is some game...
The elevator dings. I pound on the door twice, shifting my weight. It flies open, and Donghwa's there, looking annoyingly put-together. Black tee clinging to his chest, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed but in that intentional way. No fever flush. No blown pupils. No feral growl.
"The fuck?" I start, stepping half-inside. "Your rut hit early or—"
He doesn't let me finish. One hand fists my shirt, yanking me over the threshold. The door slams shut behind me. His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding, tongue shoving past my teeth like he owns the territory. I grunt, hands coming up to shove him—maybe—but he pins me back against the wall, all that lean height and leverage trapping me solid.
His free hand dives straight for my zipper, rough fingers shoving inside my pants, palming my cock through my boxers. I buck into it on instinct, already half-hard from the kiss alone. His scent floods the space—cold snap and ink, cutting through the week's worth of vanilla ghosts in my head.
"Fuck," I gasp against his lips, head thumping back on the plaster. His thumb circles the head of my dick, pressing just right through the fabric, and my hips jerk forward. "What the fuck?"
He doesn't answer. Just squeezes, rolling my balls in his palm while his teeth scrape my jaw. My knees dip, traitorous body lighting up like he flipped a switch.
I wrench my mouth free, gasping for air that doesn't taste like him—like winter bite and that fucking ginseng edge that goes straight to my dick. My chest heaves, and I shove at his shoulders, but it's like pushing a goddamn wall. "What the hell, Donghwa? This isn't—fuck—this isn't what we agreed on. You're not even in rut. I can tell. Your eyes aren't blown, you smell normal, you're not trying to rip my throat out or bend me over and shove it in."
He doesn't pull back. Doesn't even flinch. Instead, he drags his lips down the side of my neck, hot and wet, tongue flicking out to trace the pulse hammering under my skin. A low hum vibrates against my throat, sending sparks straight down my spine. "Mm," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and unhurried, like he's commenting on the weather. "Don't care. Want you now."
My brain short-circuits for half a second—want menow?—but survival kicks in. I twist in his grip, planting a hand on his chest to create space, bucking my hips to throw him off. "Bullshit. Get off—"
Big mistake. His hand tightens on my cock through the material, squeezing just hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyelids. I choke on a curse, thighs clenching as he rolls hispalm over the head, thumb digging into the seam like he owns the damn thing. And then—fuck—he shoves lower, callused fingers bullying past the waistband of my boxers, dipping between my cheeks without warning.
Two fingers jam right into my hole, rough and unapologetic, no prep and no time to brace myself.
I hiss through my teeth, slapping at his wrist like it'll do a damn thing. His fingers are already buried knuckle-deep—two of them, thick and relentless, pistoning in without an ounce of mercy. The stretch burns in the best kind of way, my body yielding even as I curse him out. He curls them at the perfect angle, brushing right over that spot inside that makes my whole body jolt, and for one blinding second, the world goes white behind my eyelids, my mouth falling open on a silent gasp. Bastard. He knows exactly what he's doing, and worse—he's enjoying every second of watching me come apart. "Get—fuck—get them out, you psycho."
Donghwa just laughs, low and rough against my throat, the vibration buzzing straight down to where he's stretching me open. He doesn't pull back—instead, he twists his wrist, fingers splaying wide inside me, brushing that spot that turns my spine to jelly. "Mmm. Already prepped yourself, hyung? Slick and greedy. Who's the eager one now?"
Heat slams into my face, burning from my neck to the tips of my ears. I flush so hard I feel it in my balls, twisting my hips half to escape, half to chase the pressure. "Shut up," I snap, voice cracking on the edge. "I thought you were in rut, asshole. Didn't want you ripping me open when you lost your goddamn head like last time."
He hums, pleased as a cat with cream, thumb circling my rim where his fingers disappear. I choke on air, thighs trembling as he spreads me wider, the burn twisting into something filthy and sweet. His free hand pins my hip harder, keeping me flushagainst the wall—no room to buck, no room to breathe except his scent flooding my lungs.
"Then we'd better not waste it," he murmurs, voice dropping to that gravel drawl that always undoes me. Fingers drag out slow, deliberate, leaving me clenching on nothing—then slam back in, three this time, scissoring rough. My knees buckle. I bite my lip bloody to stifle the whine clawing up my throat, but it slips out anyway, ragged and desperate.
Bastard knows exactly what he's doing. My cock's leaking down my thigh, traitorous and throbbing, begging for more.
Donghwa's fingers drag out slow, deliberate, twisting just enough to make my rim clench on nothing. I suck in a ragged breath, hating how empty I feel already, my hole twitching like a greedy asshole begging to be filled. "You—fuck—"
Before the word's even out, he spins me like I weigh nothing, one hand slamming between my shoulder blades. My chest hits the back of the couch, face mashing into the cushions. The air punches out of me. I scramble for purchase, fingers digging into leather, ass up and exposed like some desperate presentation.
