The worst part isn't the pain. It isn't even the fact that he knotted me, stretching me until I thought I’d split in two.
The worst part is the memory flashing in my brain like a strobe light. The way I keened when he hit that spot inside me. The way my hips bucked back against him, begging for it. I didn't just take it. Iwantedit. For hours, I let another Alpha own me, and I liked it.
I feel sick. Physically, violently sick.
I grab my shoes and don't even bother tying them until I’m out in the hallway. The apartment is silent, thank whatever gods are listening. I limp to the front door, wincing as the friction of denim against my raw skin reminds me of every thrust.
I slip out into the corridor, the heavy click of the lock behind me sounding like a gunshot. I don't wait for the elevator. I take the stairs, clinging to the railing, fleeing the scene of the crime like the building is on fire. My dignity is back in that room, shredded on the floor next to my discarded boxers, and I have a terrible feeling I’m never getting it back.
I look like a fugitive. Or worse, an art major during finals week.
I’m wearing a hoodie. A gray, oversized, shapeless sack of cotton that I wouldn't be caught dead in under normal circumstances. Usually, I’m in a fitted tee that highlights the hours I spend doing incline bench presses, or at least a varsity jacket that screams "I run this place." Today, I look like I’m trying to smuggle a ham out of a grocery store.
But I have no choice. Because underneath the thick fabric, right where my neck meets my shoulder, is a bruise the size of a tangerine. And right in the center of that bruise are teeth marks. Deep, broken-skin punctures that throb every time my heart beats.
A bite mark. Onme. On an Alpha.
I stand outside the lecture hall door, checking my reflection in the glass panel. My hair is a mess because I couldn't lift my armhigh enough to style it properly. My eyes have dark circles that no amount of cold water could fix. I look wrecked.
I check the time on my phone. Ten minutes late. Perfect. Everyone should be settled, eyes front, listening to Professor Choi drone on about color theory. If I’m lucky, I can slip into the back row, dissolve into the shadows, and pretend the last forty-eight hours were a fever dream induced by bad shellfish.
I take a deep breath—mistake, my ribs ache—and push the door open.
The air inside hits me instantly. It’s the usual stale mix of coffee, dry erase markers, and low-level anxiety. But cutting through it all, sharp and distinct, ishim.
Cold winter air. Ink. Ginseng.
My stomach does a traitorous, sickening flip. It’s not the nausea of disgust, though I tell myself it is. It’s a lurch of recognition. My skin prickles under the hoodie, goosebumps racing down my arms. It’s like my body knows that scent now, recognizes it as the thing that wrecked me, and instead of recoiling, my pulse jumps.
Get a grip, Sihwan.
I keep my head down, hood pulled up, and shuffle toward the nearest empty seat in the back. Every step sends a jolt of misery up my spine. My ass feels like I spent the weekend riding a horse bareback over a rocky mountain. I have to walk with a weird, stiff-legged gait that I pray just looks like a sports injury.Yeah, pulled a hamstring. intense training. Definitely not getting railed by a freshman.
I slide into the chair, wincing as my denim-clad rear hits the hard plastic. I bite my tongue to keep from whimpering.
I feel instantly the weight of a gaze.
I don't want to look. I really, really don't. But it’s like gravity. Against my will, my eyes dart toward the middle row.
Kang Donghwa is there. Of course he is. And he looks infuriatingly perfect. He’s wearing a black turtleneck that makes his neck look long and elegant, his dark hair falling effortlessly over his forehead. He looks rested. He looks calm. He looks like he didn't spend Saturday night rearranging my internal organs.
He’s not looking at the professor. He’s turned in his seat, his chin resting on his hand, looking directly at me.
Our eyes lock for a fraction of a second.
His expression is unreadable—that stoic, bored mask he always wears. But then, the corner of his mouth ticks up. Just a millimeter. A microscopic smirk.
Heat floods my face. It’s instantaneous and humiliating. I feel the blush crawl up my neck, right over the bite mark, turning my ears burning hot. I tear my gaze away, staring aggressively at the back of the head of the girl in front of me.
Don't look at him. Don't acknowledge him.
But I can still feel him. It’s like static electricity in the air.
And the worst part? The absolute, rock-bottom worst part?
My dick twitches.
Just from the eye contact. Just from the memory that flashes, unbidden, into my brain—the sound of his voice, that deep, scratchy rasp in my ear.“Relax, hyung.”
