"Shit," I gasp.
The moment I say it, the ache in my gut triples.
The sun coming through the blinds feels like a personal attack. It’s too bright, too sharp, slicing right into my eyeballs even though my lids are squeezed shut.
I wake up with a groan that sounds more like a wounded animal than a human being. My bed, usually a haven of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, feels like a swamp. I’m drowning in sweat. It’s soaking my hair, plastering the sheets to my legs, trickling down my spine.
And the pain.God, the pain.
It’s centered between my legs, a throbbing, relentless pressure that feels like my heart has migrated south and is trying to beat its way out of my skin. My cock is painfully hard, straining against the fabric of my boxers so tight I’m surprised the seams haven’t burst. It’s not the fun kind of morning wood. It’s an angry, inflamed demand.
I try to roll over, and a cramp seizes my gut, twisting my insides like a wet towel. I curl into a ball, gasping, my teeth chattering. I’m burning up. My skin feels paper-thin and sensitive, like every nerve ending has been stripped bare and exposed to the air.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, the buzzing sound drilling into my skull.
Seungchan.
I stare at the name, my vision swimming. If I don’t answer, he’ll come over. He’s loyal like a dog and just as incapable of understanding personal boundaries. If he comes over and smellsthis—smells the rancid, concentrated stench of distressed Alpha rut leaking out of my pores—I’ll never live it down.
I fumble for the phone, my fingers clumsy and slick with sweat. I swipe answer and shove it against my ear.
"Yo, Sihwan! You alive, bro? You weren't at the gym and—"
"Sick," I croak. My voice sounds wrecked, like I’ve been gargling gravel.
Seungchan pauses. "Whoa. You sound like shit."
"Flu," I lie, squeezing my eyes shut as another wave of heat rolls over me. "Bad one. Fever. Puking."
"Damn. That sucks. Want me to bring you some porridge? Or soup? My mom makes this—"
"No," I snap, too quickly. I force myself to dial it back. "No. Contagious. Don't come here. Tell coach I’m out. Tell the guys... just tell them I’m dying."
"Okay, okay. I got you. Rest up, King. Don't die on us."
I hang up and let the phone drop to the floor. The effort of the thirty-second conversation leaves me panting, my chest heaving.
I need to fix this. That's what I do. I fix things. I have resources.
I drag myself out of bed, my legs trembling like a newborn deer, and stumble to the bathroom. I rip the medicine cabinet open, knocking bottles into the sink in my haste until I find the emergency stash.Alpha-X Suppressants.The military-grade stuff my dad imports. These things could stop a rut in a charging bull.
I dry swallow two of them. Then, because I’m desperate, I take a third.
"Work," I hiss at my reflection. I look deranged. My eyes are bloodshot, my hair sticking up in sweaty clumps, my face flushed a blotchy, unhealthy red.
I stumble back to bed and wait.
Ten minutes. Twenty.
Nothing happens. If anything, it gets worse. The chemical suppressants hit my stomach and just... burn. My body rejects them. It’s like throwing a cup of water on a grease fire. The biological imperative roaring through my blood just laughs at the pills and ramps up the heat.
The pressure in my groin is becoming unbearable. It’s a physical weight, a heavy, aching need to beinsidesomething. To fill. To knot.
"Fuck it," I whimper.
I shove my hand down my boxers. I don’t even use lube; I’m too far gone for logic. I just grip myself and start to stroke, fast and rough. It doesn't feel good. It feels like scratching an itch that’s under the skin, frustrating and frantic.
I pump my hand, hips bucking off the mattress involuntarily. I’m chasing a release that feels miles away. My head falls back, a low, broken sound tearing out of my throat.
