Chapter Twenty-Six
My ass is numb. That’s what I'm thinking as the highway mile markers blur past the passenger window. My ass is numb, my throat feels like I swallowed a handful of gravel, and I have a bite mark on my trap that is definitely going to bruise a spectacular shade of purple by tomorrow morning.
I’ve never felt better.
I shift in the leather seat, wincing as my lower back protests the movement. Beside me, Donghwa drives with one hand draped lazily over the wheel, looking unfairly fresh. He’s wearing sunglasses, his hair is pushed back, and he looks like he justcame from a spa weekend, not a three-day marathon of knotting me into the mattress.
"Stop fidgeting," he says, not looking away from the road. "You're shaking the car."
"I'm trying to find a position that doesn't remind me that my insides have been rearranged," I snap back, though there's no heat in it. I grab the iced Americano from the cup holder and take a desperate sip.
"You didn't seem to mind the rearranging at the time," he smirks, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.
I flip him off, sinking lower in the seat. The silence that settles between us isn't the sharp, jagged thing it used to be. It’s heavy, warm. Comfortable. It feels like the interior of this car is its own little world, sealed off from the campus politics and the hierarchy bullshit waiting for us back in Seoul.
We’re essentially fleeing the scene of the crime. Or rather, we were evicted.
My mind drifts back to four hours ago. I was dead to the world, face buried in a pillow that smelled like Donghwa and sandalwood, when the bedroom door sounded like it was being kicked in by a SWAT team.
"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!"
"Get up, you hermits! The sun is up and you smell like a locker room!"
Dohwa and Dohwi. The terrifying twin tornadoes.
I had groaned, trying to pull the duvet over my head, only to have it ripped away by a gleeful Dohwi. Donghwa, the traitor, didn't even try to defend us. He just sat up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking blearily at his sisters like a confused owl while I scrambled to cover my naked ass with a stray pillow.
"Breakfast," Dohwa had commanded, pointing a manicured finger at the door. "Now. Mrs. Park made galbijjim. If you aren'tdownstairs in ten minutes, we're coming back with a bucket of ice water."
They didn't give us a choice. Ten minutes later, we were sitting at the dining table, looking like victims of a natural disaster, while the Kang family looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
It was… weird. Good weird. But weird.
Usually, the morning after a rut—if I even stayed the morning after—is a walk of shame. It’s awkward silences, hasty dressing, and getting the hell out before things get complicated. But here? Donghwa’s dad passed me the rice like it was the most normal thing in the world for his son’s Alpha partner to be sitting there with hickeys climbing up his neck.
"Eat up, Sihwan," his mom had said, piling braised short ribs onto my spoon. "You look depleted. You need your strength."
"Mom," Donghwa groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
"What?" She blinked innocently. "Swimming takes a lot of energy. Isn't that what you were doing all weekend? Indoor cardio?"
Dohwi snorted into her orange juice. "Yeah, lots of laps. We heard the… splashing."
I had choked on my water. Actual water in my lungs.
"Ignore them," Donghwa muttered, patting my back roughly while his sisters cackled. "They're just jealous they don't have anyone to do cardio with."
"Gross," Dohwa said, wrinkling her nose. "Don't talk about your sex life at the table, you heathen."
"You brought it up!"
It descended into bickering, loud and chaotic, and for once, I didn't feel like I had to perform. I didn't have to be Sihwan the dominant alpha, or Sihwan the Heir. I was just the guy sitting next to Donghwa, getting fed by his mom and roasted by his sisters.
When we finally managed to escape to the car, Mrs. Park, the housekeeper who I’m pretty sure runs the entire estate with an iron fist, intercepted us. She didn't say a word, just popped the trunk and started loading it with food containers. Kimchi, soy-braised beef, marinated crab, endless side dishes stacked like Tetris blocks.
"Mrs. Park, that's too much," I’d tried to say.
She just patted my cheek—actually patted my cheek—and said, "You're too skinny. Eat."
