"Bullshit," I hiss. "You flared your scent on purpose. You used the bond to make me submit."
The word hangs in the air between us, heavy and dangerous.Submit.Just saying it makes my stomach twist with a mix of nausea and heat.
Donghwa’s expression shifts. The boredom evaporates, replaced by that sharp, predatory intelligence that he usually hides behind his apathy. He leans forward, invading my space, and suddenly the small, cramped bathroom is filled with the scent of cold winter air and ink.
My knees wobble. I hate them for it. I lock them out, refusing to give an inch.
"And?" Donghwa asks softly.
"And?" I sputter, incredulous. "And it's against the rules! It's unsportsmanlike conduct! It's—"
"It's biology," he cuts in, his voice smooth as silk. He releases one of my wrists to brush a damp lock of hair out of his eyes. "But go ahead. Report me."
I freeze. "What?"
"Report me," he repeats, his dark eyes dancing with amusement. "Go find the referee. Go find the department head. Tell them that the freshman was playing dirty."
"I will," I threaten, though my grip on his shirt is already loosening. "I'll get you disqualified."
"Okay." He leans in closer, until his lips are hovering inches from my ear. "And what exactly are you going to tell them, Sihwan?"
My breath hitches.
"Are you going to tell them that I used illegal pheromones?" he whispers, the vibration of his voice traveling straight down my spine. "Because last I checked, I'm an Alpha. You're an Alpha. My pheromones shouldn't do anything to you except make you want to fight me."
My blood runs cold.
"If you tell them I made you go weak in the knees," he continues, relentless, "you're going to have to explainwhy. You're going to have to explain why a big, bad Dominant Alpha like Oh Sihwan crumbled just because I smelled a little strong."
He pulls back to look me in the eye, his smirk widening into a grin that is pure evil.
"So, go ahead. Tell them we're bonded. Tell the whole school that I knotted you so hard your biology rewrote itself to think you're my bitch."
I shove him away, stumbling back like I’ve been burned. My back hits the sinks, the porcelain digging into my spine. "Shut your mouth."
"Am I wrong?" He straightens his shirt, brushing off the wrinkles I put there with maddening nonchalance. "You can't report me without outing yourself. You're trapped, Hyung. You can't tell anyone because your pride won't let you admit that you belong to me now."
"I don't belong to you," I spit, though the words sound hollow even to me. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
He steps toward me, and instinctively, I brace myself. But he just reaches past me to toss his used paper towel into the trash can. As he passes, he lets his scent flare again—just a little, just enough to make my breath catch and my pupils dilate.
He steps closer, and the sink digs painfully into my lower back. There’s nowhere left to go, and looking at the glint in his eyes, he knows it. He enjoys it.
"You look like you're about to come out of your skin, Hyung," he murmurs, bracing a hand on the mirror next to my head.
"Back off," I warn, but my voice lacks the bite it usually has. It sounds breathless. Weak.
Donghwa doesn't listen. Instead, the air in the cramped bathroom grows instantly heavier, thicker. He pushes his scent out, a concentrated wave of cold winter air that wraps around my throat like a velvet chokehold. It’s not aggressive this time; it’s penetrating. Heavy. Intoxicating.
My brain screams at me to shove him away, to knee him in the groin, to run. But my limbs feel like they’ve been filled with lead. The fight drains out of me, replaced by a warm, fuzzy static that buzzes at the base of my skull. My eyelids grew heavy, fluttering shut as I inhale sharply, dragging that addictive scent deep into my lungs against my will.
"There," he whispers, his breath ghosting over my lips. "Much better."
He leans in, and I don't pull away. I can't.
His mouth crashes onto mine, bruising and demanding. It’s not a soft kiss; it’s a claim. He tastes like mint and arrogance, and the moment our lips touch, a jolt of pure heat shoots straight to my groin. My hands, which should be punching him, fist into the fabric of his jersey, pulling him closer. I lean into him, my head falling back, exposing my throat as I make a pathetic, needy sound in the back of my throat.
For a second, I forget where we are. I forget the soccer game, the tile walls, the fact that I hate him. There is only the crushing weight of his body against mine and the overwhelming command of the bond telling me toyield.
