It wraps around me, heavy and possessive. It’s invisible, but it feels like a hand gripping the back of my neck.
My breath hitches. My thighs clench together instinctively, a wet slick of arousal dampening my boxers. The reaction is instantaneous, humiliatingly fast. I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white.
He’s doing this on purpose.
I risk another glance over my shoulder, glaring this time.
Donghwa hasn't moved. He’s still watching me, but now that smirk has widened just a fraction. He taps his pen against his lips—lips that were all over me two days ago—and winks.
I whip back around, face burning, furious tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I am going to kill him. I am going to drag him into a dark alley and murder him.
But as the class drags on, and the nausea from the other students' scents starts to creep back in, I find myself inhaling deeply, pulling that crisp, cold scent into my lungs like a lifeline. It’s the only thing that smells right. It’s the only thing that makes the headache recede.
I don’t submit to anyone.
But as I sit there, trembling in my hoodie, hard as a rock and terrified that someone will notice, I realize the terrifying truth. My biology doesn't care about my reputation.
"Fake it 'til you make it." That’s the motto. It’s written in invisible ink on the family crest, right underMoney Can Buy You Love If You Pay Enough.
I’m sitting at the center table in the canteen, the prime real estate reserved for the social elite, or in this case, me and anyone loud enough to sit near me. I’ve got my legs spread wide, taking up enough space for two people, an arm draped over the back of my chair, and a grin plastered on my face that feels like it’s being held up by duct tape.
"So then I told the coach, if you want the funding for the new pool, you better put me on the starting lineup," I say, loud enough for the table three rows over to hear.
Seungchan laughs, spraying a little bit of rice, and slaps the table. "Classic Sihwan! You’re a menace, bro."
"I’m a businessman," I correct, winking at a group of sophomores walking by.
They giggle. It’s working. The universe is righting itself. I am definitely not a guy who spent the weekend getting railed into a coma by a freshman.
"Sihwan-oppa?"
I turn, cranking the charm up to eleven. It’s Yoona from the Dance department. She’s cute—big eyes, short skirt, smells like...
Oh god.
She steps closer, smiling shyly, and the scent hits me. Usually, Yoona smells like vanilla and jasmine. It’s a scent that used to make me puff my chest out and think about buying her a drink.
Today, it smells like someone set a bouquet of plastic flowers on fire and then doused it in expired cough syrup.
My stomach gives a violent, wet lurch. I have to swallow hard, fighting the sudden urge to gag.
"Hey, Yoona," I manage, my voice sounding a little strangled. "You look... great."
"I haven't seen you around lately," she says, stepping into my personal space. She’s flirting. She’s releasing pheromones. She’s trying to be appealing.
It’s chemical warfare.
The sweetness is sickening, thick and oily in the back of my throat. It coats my tongue. I stop breathing through my nose, switching to shallow mouth-breaths, but I can still taste it. It’s repulsive. It’s wrong. It’s nothim.
The thought flashes through my brain before I can stop it. My traitorous biology doesn't want vanilla. It wants winter air. It wants that sharp, clean bite of ginseng and ink that makes my knees weak.
"Yeah, been busy," I say, leaning back. I’m leaning back so far I’m in danger of tipping the chair over. "You know. Empire building. Alpha stuff."
Yoona giggles again, oblivious to the fact that I’m turning a shade of pale usually reserved for Victorian ghosts. She reaches out, her hand brushing my bicep. "Well, if you're free this weekend, maybe you could... help me with something?"
Her scent spikes with hopefulness.
My gorge rises. I clamp my lips together, feeling sweat break out on my forehead. It’s a physical rejection, a biological "Access Denied" flashing in red letters across my vision. My body isscreaming at me to get away, to scrub the scent off, to find my mate.
