Two days. I spent forty-eight hours in my apartment scrubbing my skin until it was red and raw, trying to wash off the phantom sensation of Kang Donghwa’s hands, his mouth, and that damn knot. I look in the mirror of the hallway bathroom before class, adjusting the collar of my hoodie. It’s popped high, looking ridiculous and try-hard even for me, but it’s the only thing covering the gauze taped over the bite mark on my shoulder.
"You look like shit, Sihwan," Seungchan says, clapping a hand on my back.
I flinch. Actually flinch. My skin feels too tight, hypersensitive, like I’m suffering from a sunburn that goes bone-deep.
"Flu," I lie, my voice rougher than usual. "Brutal fever. I’m still recovering."
"You missed a killer party," he says, oblivious. "And Heesung was asking about you."
At the mention of the name, I wait for the usual spark of excitement. The thrill of the chase. The ego boost. Instead, my stomach gives a wet, unhappy lurch. A group of Omega girls walks past us, giggling, leaving a trail of floral, sugary pheromones in their wake.
Usually, I’d be preening. I’d be soaking it up, letting my own scent roll out to hook them. Today, the smell hits me like rotting fruit. It’s too strong, suffocatingly sweet, and makes bile rise in my throat. I have to swallow hard to keep from gagging right there in the corridor.
"Great," I mutter, turning away from them. "Let's just get to class."
I walk into the lecture hall with my head down, a first for me. Usually, I make an entrance. I stride in, claim the center of the room, and wait for the applause. Today, I just want to find a corner and disappear.
But the universe hates me.
I feel him before I see him. It’s not a mystical psychic connection or any of that romance novel garbage. It’s biological terror mixed with a humiliating jolt of adrenaline. The air in the room feels heavier and colder.
Kang Donghwa is sitting in the back row, dressed in his usual funeral attire—black sweater, black coat, silver rings on long fingers glinting under the fluorescent lights. He’s leaning back, long legs stretched out, looking bored out of his mind.
He doesn't look up when I enter. He doesn't have to. I feel the weight of his attention snap onto me like a physical tether.
My heart hammers against my ribs.Thump-thump-thump.It’s infuriating. My brain is screamingenemy, rival, asshole, but my pulse is singing a different tune entirely. It recognizes him. It remembers the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the friction, the heat.
I shove that thought into a mental incinerator and slide into a seat on the opposite side of the tiered room, flanked by Seungchan and a couple of other Alphas.
I risk a glance. Just one.
Donghwa is looking right at me.
He’s not hiding it. His chin is propped on his hand, those dark, unreadable eyes fixed on the side of my face. He looks calm. Predatory. There’s a faint, arrogant curl to his lip, like he knows exactly what his presence is doing to me. Like he knows I’m wearing this stupid hoodie to hide his teeth marks.
Heat floods my face. I jerk my gaze back to the front of the room, staring aggressively at the blank whiteboard.
Don't look at him. Don't smell him. He doesn't exist.
The professor starts going on about brand identity and visual hierarchy, but the words sound like they’re coming from underwater. I’m hyper-aware of every movement behind me. A chair scrapes. A pen clicks. Is that him? Is he moving?
My skin prickles. I can feel the ghost of the bond itching under the bandage. It’s throbbing in time with my heartbeat, a constant, nagging reminder that I belong to someone. And not just anyone—the freshman alpha upstart.
"Sihwan?"
I jump, my knee hitting the desk with a loudthud.
The professor is staring at me. The whole class is staring at me.
"I asked for your opinion on the case study, Mr. Oh," the professor says, adjusting his glasses. "Since you seem to be lost in thought."
"I—" My throat is dry. I clear it, trying to summon the charismatic, top-of-the-class Alpha I’m supposed to be. "I think the brand lacks a clear target demographic. It’s trying to appeal to everyone, so it appeals to no one."
It’s a bullshit answer, generic and safe.
"Succinct," the professor says, sounding unimpressed, before moving on.
I let out a breath, slumping slightly. Then, I feel a sharp spike in the scent of winter air and ginseng, rolling over me from the back of the room. It’s a flare. A deliberate release of pheromones.
