It is the most insulting thing anyone has ever done to me.
He thinks he can humiliate me, run circles around me, make me look like a clumsy amateur in front of the entire department, and then offer me a handshake? He thinks he can play the bigger man? The benevolent winner patting the loser on the head?
The audacity is suffocating. It chokes me worse than the dust.
I stare at his hand. Then I look up at his face. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are bright, alive in a way they haven’t been since he stepped foot on this campus. He looks… satisfied.
My vision tints red.
Smack.
I slap his hand away. Hard.
The sound is sharp, cutting through the ambient chatter of the post-game celebration. The impact stings my palm, but the satisfaction is immediate.
Donghwa’s hand drops to his side. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look surprised. He just watches me, his head tilting slightly to the side like a bird studying a worm.
"Don't touch me," I snarl, stepping into his space. I flare my pheromones, pushing out a heavy, aggressive wave of spiced rum and musk, trying to drown out his irritatingly crisp scent. "You think this is funny? You think you're cute?"
"I think I won," Donghwa says. His voice is raspy, dry from the exertion. It grates on my nerves.
"You got lucky," I spit, jabbing a finger toward his chest, stopping just short of touching him. "You think because you can kick a ball you run this place? You're nothing. You're a tourist."
The chatter around us has died down. People are watching. Fine, whatever. they can watch then. Let them see that the King hasn't been dethroned.
"This isn't over," I hiss, my voice dropping low, vibrating with genuine menace. "You wanted my attention? You got it. This is war, Kang Donghwa. I’m going to make your life here a living hell. I’m going to break you."
I expect him to blink. I expect him to step back, to look uncomfortable, to realize he’s pushed the hierarchy too far.
Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up.
It’s not a nice smile. It’s not the polite, bored smile he gives the omegas. It’s sharp. It’s jagged. It’s the smile of a tiger
"You started this, Hyung," he says softly.
He takes a step closer to me. He’s taller, and he uses it now, looming over me, blocking out the sun. His scent spikes, and it doesn't clash with mine. It cuts right through it. It’s potent. Dominant.
He drops his hand, his dark eyes narrowing. The boredom is completely gone. In its place is something dangerous. Something that looks a hell of a lot like excitement.
"But fine," he says, his voice low, intimate, like a secret just for me. "If that's how you want to play… let's play."
He leans in, his lips inches from my ear. I freeze, my muscles locking up, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"I'm going to give you the fight you want, Sihwan," he whispers. "Don't cry when it gets too rough."
He pulls back, flashing that terrifying, sharp smirk one last time. Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd of cheering freshmen, leaving me standing there in the dirt, chest heaving, blood boiling, and absolutely, furiously awake.
Chapter Six
My shins are still throbbing.
Every step I take toward the Visual Design building sends a dull, rhythmic ache radiating up my legs, a lovely souvenir from Friday’s soccer game. I’d like to say I gave as good as I got, but the scrape on my elbow and the bruise blooming purple on my hip tell a different story.
I check my reflection in the glass doors before pushing them open. Hair perfectly swept back? Check. Biceps looking massive in this tight white tee? Double check. If I’m walking with a slight limp, I’ll just play it off as a war wound. Chicks dig battle scars.
"Morning, Sihwan-oppa!" a group of freshman Omegas chirp as I pass.
I flash them the million-won smile, the one my mother made me practice in the mirror until my cheeks cramped. "Ladies."
