It’s a crime scene.
My torso, usually my pride and joy, looks like a map of bad decisions. There are faint, reddish friction burns on my knees. My hips—fuck, my hips—have distinct, dark smudges on the sides where Donghwa’s fingers dug in to hold me in place. They look like shadows in the dim light, but under the harsh glare of the pool deck? They’re going to screamhandled.
But the pièce de résistance is the shoulder.
I twist my neck, wincing as the movement pulls at the skin. The bite mark is a masterpiece of violence. Purple, blue, and angry red, the individual puncture marks of his teeth clearly visible in the center of the bruising. It’s tribal. It’s possessive. It’s a neon sign that saysProperty of Kang Donghwa.
"Stupid," I mutter, glaring at my own reflection. "You absolute, colossal moron."
I was so desperate to prove I was the top dog. I had to push him. I had to drag him into that room. I had to start a pheromone pissing contest with a guy whose scent alone could probably knock out a horse. And now look at me. I’m standing in my underwear, trembling because my legs feel like jelly, staring at a claiming bite that I—an Alpha—am sporting.
If anyone sees that, I’m dead. My reputation won’t just take a hit; it’ll be incinerated. The Campus King, knotted and bitten like a common omega in heat? I’d have to transfer. Maybe to a different planet.
I scramble for my gym bag, digging through the side pocket where I keep my emergency kit. Goggles, spare cap, ear drops… yes.
I pull out a box of large, waterproof bandages. The heavy-duty kind meant for scraping yourself on the pool wall. I rip the packaging open with my teeth, my hands shaking slightly.
I slap the bandage over the bite mark. It’s big, beige, and ugly, but it covers the teeth marks. Now it just looks like I have a weird injury. A muscle strain? A boil? A chemical burn? Literally anything is better than the truth. I press the adhesive down hard, wincing as it sticks to the tender skin.
"Shoulder strain," I rehearse, my voice sounding tinny in the tiled room. "Rotator cuff acting up. Kinesiology tape."
Yeah, that’ll work. Maybe.
Now for the hard part. The pants.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and push down. The friction against my hips makes me suck in a sharp breath. Stepping out of them requires a level of balance I currently do not possess. I have to grab the bench to keep from toppling over as I kick the denim away.
I’m left in my briefs, staring at my swim trunks. My team-issue Speedos. They are small. They are tight. They are designed to be aerodynamic, not to hide the evidence of a sexual conquest.
I pull them on, gritting my teeth as I drag the tight fabric up my legs. I yank the waistband up as high as it will go, praying it covers the bruises on my hip bones. Itjustbarely covers the worst of it. If I move too much, if I twist the wrong way, the dark marks are going to peek out.
"Don't twist," I tell myself. "Swim straight lines. No flip turns if you can help it."
I grab my cap and goggles, taking one last look in the mirror. I look pale. The bandage stands out against my tan skin like a beacon. I look like I’ve been in a car accident.
"You did this to yourself," I remind the miserable reflection. "You wanted a rivalry. You wanted his attention. Well, congratulations, Sihwan. You got it."
I turn away from the mirror, forcing my shoulders back, trying to summon even an ounce of my usual arrogance. It hurts. Everything hurts. My ass throbs in time with my heartbeat.
I march toward the door to the pool deck, trying to smooth out my limp into a swagger. It’s not working. I’m walking like a cowboy who spent three weeks in the saddle.
I push the heavy door open, and the wall of humidity and chlorine hits me. The sound of splashing water and the coach’s whistle pierces my eardrums.
Here goes nothing.
Three days. That’s how long it takes for the human body—or at least,mysuperior, Alpha-grade body—to bounce back from total annihilation.
I’m sitting on a sticky leather couch in a VIP room atStar Coin Noraebang, and for the first time since the "Incident," I don't feel like I’m sitting on a cactus. The deep, bone-bruising ache in my hips has faded to a dull, barely-there stiffness that I can easily blame on a heavy squat session. The waddle is gone. My stride is back.
I am Oh Sihwan, and I have survived the apocalypse.
"Yah! Sihwan-ah! Your turn!"
Seungchan shoves a microphone into my chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me. The room is a chaotic mess of flashing disco lights, tambourine rattling, and the smell of cheap beer and dried squid. It’s loud, it’s tacky, and it’s absolutely perfect.
I grin, snatching the mic with a flourish. "About time. You guys were butchering that ballad. My ears were bleeding."
A chorus of boos and laughter erupts from the group. We’ve got a solid crew tonight—me, Seungchan, a couple of other guys from the department, and three omega girls from the fashion design major who have been eyeing my biceps all night.
