"Watch the merchandise, Seungchan," I snap, though there’s no real heat in it.
Seungchan grins, oblivious as always, and squeezes into the seat directly behind me. Two other guys from the department, Yoonsuk and Jaejoong, flank us, effectively boxing Heesung in. Suddenly, he’s surrounded by four large, loud Alphas. The air in the immediate vicinity gets thick with testosterone—Seungchan smells like cheap deodorant and gym sweat, and the other two aren't much better.
It’s an intimidating wall of muscle. Most Omegas would be shrinking into themselves right now, overwhelmed by the sheer pressure of it all.
I glance sideways at Heesung, waiting for the inevitable distress signal so I can swoop in and be the gallant protector.'Back off, boys, he’s with me.'
But Heesung just sighs, a tiny, barely audible sound. He pulls a highlighter out of his pencil case—pink, naturally—and marks a sentence in his book. He glances around at the wall of beefsurrounding him with an expression of mild curiosity, like he’s watching a documentary about large, clumsy animals.
"Crowded today," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
"This is Seungchan," I say loudly, gesturing to the giant behind me. "And the peanut gallery. Guys, this is Heesung. The transfer I told you about."
"Whoa," Seungchan breathes, leaning over the back of my chair to get a better look. "You’re the model guy, right? I saw your Instafam. You have, like, a million followers."
Heesung finally looks up, offering Seungchan a polite, dazzling smile. "Not quite a million. But thank you."
He doesn't shrink away from Seungchan’s looming face. He doesn't look at me for help. He just sits there, smelling like sweet peaches, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s in the middle of a predator’s den.
I frown, tapping my fingers against the desk. He’s got nerves of steel, I’ll give him that. Or maybe he’s just so used to attention that four Alphas breathing down his neck is just a Tuesday for him.
Either way, I need to step up my game. Being part of the crowd isn't my style. I need to be the main event.
I try to angle my body to block Seungchan out, creating a little private island for just me and Heesung. It’s hard to be suave when you have a human golden retriever breathing down your neck and asking if you’ve seen the new protein powder vending machine in the gym lobby.
"So, Heesung," I start, pitching my voice low, ignoring Seungchan’s chatter about whey isolate. "You transfer from Soondeuk U? I heard the program there is intense."
I’m leaning in, ready to drop a compliment about his work ethic or his hands or whatever, when the atmosphere in the room shifts.
It’s not subtle. It’s like someone grabbed the volume knob of the lecture hall and cranked it up, then immediately snapped it off. A wave of whispers ripples from the back of the room forward, followed by the distinct sound of giggling. Lots of it.
I frown, irritated. I’m in the middle of a hunt here. Who dares interrupt the King?
"Ugh," Jaejoong groans behind me, the sound vibrating through my chair. "Not this guy. Seriously?"
I snap, whipping my head around toward the double doors. And then I get a full eyeful of the source of the spectacle.
He strolls in like he’s walking to his own execution and finds the whole process incredibly tedious. He’s tall—annoyingly tall. I’m six-one, and I pride myself on looming over people, but this guy has at least an inch or two on me. He’s lanky, but not in a weak way. It’s that swimmer build, broad shoulders tapering down into a waist that’s hidden beneath layers of expensive-looking black fabric.
And I do meanlayers. It’s early September. It’s still humid enough to make your shirt stick to your back if you walk too fast, but this guy is wearing a black turtleneck under an oversized black coat, with black slacks and heavy boots. He looks like a depressed undertaker who got lost on the way to a funeral for a rock star.
But nobody else seems to mind the fashion statement. He’s flanked by a phalanx of Omegas—three girls and a guy—who are practically tripping over themselves to open the door for him, hold his coffee, or just exist in his orbit. They’re chattering at him, beaming, eyes sparkling with that glazed-over look of total infatuation.
The guy? He doesn't even look at them. He’s staring straight ahead with a dead-eyed, sleepy expression, one hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, the other clutching a helmet. A vintagemotorcycle helmet. Of course. Because the bad boy aesthetic wasn't trying hard enough already.
"Excuse me," he mumbles, his voice a low, gravelly thing that barely carries, yet somehow everyone shuts up to listen.
He drops into a seat two rows ahead of us, slouching immediately, his long legs sprawling out into the aisle. The entourage settles around him like a protective detail, still cooing.
I scoff, ready to turn back to Heesung and make a joke about try-hards, but then the scent barrels into me.
My spine locks up. The hair on the back of my arms stands straight up, prickling against my jacket.
It’s not the sweet, cloying scent of the Omegas. It’s him. It rolls off him in a cold, heavy wave, invisible but undeniable. It smells like freezing winter air, sharp black ink, and the bitter, earthy tang of ginseng. It’s clean, it’s potent, and it’s absolutely suffocating.
It’s the scent of a Dominant Alpha.
And not just any Alpha. This isn't the smell of someone who pumps boosters to mask their insecurities. This is raw. Natural. It hits my nose and my instincts screamTHREAT.
