"Fuck—off," I rasp, but it comes out a wheeze. My dick—traitor—twitches anyway, raw and spent, dragging a weak sparkof interest through the haze. It hurts, but the pull's there, thickening slow against my thigh.
He doesn't stop. Hums instead, vibration buzzing straight to my core, teeth grazing just sharp enough to make me arch. His cock—still hard, the insatiable fucker—nudges my thigh, hot and insistent, leaking fresh precum on my skin like a promise.
I throw an arm over my eyes, blocking out the smug asshole I know is smirking down at me. Resigned. Because yeah, this is happening again. Rut doesn't give a shit about "tapped out." My body's a live wire for him now, bond humming under my skin, whisperingmore. Hole clenching feebly around nothing, ass lifting just a fraction on instinct.
Kill me now.
Hours later, sunlight finally slices through the blackout curtains like a knife, stabbing right into my corneas. I squint, brain sludge-thick, body one massive, screaming bruise. High-thread-count sheets—soft as sin, probably cost more than my monthly rent—twist around my legs like they’re trying to trap me here. Every inch of me aches: thighs quivering, hole throbbing with that deep, used-up burn and leaking sticky spend, nipples raw pinpricks under the cool air. Fresh bites litter my skin—shoulder, collarbone, neck—sharp stings that pulse with my heartbeat, marking me like a goddamn territory map.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the recessed lights to avoid thinking. One. Two. Three. Useless. My mind replays it all in filthy HD: Donghwa’s rut turning him into a machine, pounding me raw for hours, knot after knot, until I blacked out twice just to escape the overload. I came so many times my balls feel shriveled. And humiliatingly, I begged for it. Whined like a bitch, clawing at him, demanding more.
A heavy arm flops across my waist, pinning me down. Donghwa. Dead to the world, face slack in sleep, breath even against my neck. His body heat radiates like a furnace—sweat-slick chest glued to my side, leg thrown over mine, cock soft but thick against my thigh. That inky tiger tattoo curls possessive over his pec. Up close, without the haze of lust, it’s even hotter. Fuck me.
No.Fuck that.
I shift, testing—his arm tightens instinctively, dragging me closer. Our scents mingle thick in the air: his crisp winter bite laced with my spiced rum, twisted into something new, somethingours. The bond hums under my skin, content, sated. My stomach flips—not nausea, not anymore. Just... right. Wrong as hell, but right.
This is it. No suppressants, no surgery, no bullshit excuses. We’re locked in. Permanent. Two dominant alphas mated like some freak biological glitch. Campus king reduced to secret fucktoy for the unbothered freshman. My dick twitches at the thought—traitor—and I groan, low and pissed.
Chapter Eighteen
The smell of chlorine usually pumps me up. It’s the scent of victory, of my domain, of the one place where I don’t have to try so damn hard to be the best because I justam. Today, though, the chemical sting in my nose is barely masking the phantom scent of winter air and sex that seems permanently etched into my pores.
I hiss through my teeth as I wind the kinesiology tape around my shoulder, pulling it tight. Too tight.
"Easy, man. You trying to cut off circulation?"
I glance up at Seungchan, who’s shoving his feet into his slides on the bench next to me. I force a grin, though it feels brittle.
"Just making sure it holds," I say, smoothing the beige tape over the angry, purple-black bruise shaped distinctly like a set of human teeth right where my neck meets my shoulder. "My PT says the rotator cuff needs extra stability."
"Rotator cuff," Seungchan repeats, shaking his head. "You sure you didn't just sleep on it wrong? You’ve been ghosting us all weekend. I thought you had the flu."
"Flu inflamed the... joint," I lie smoothly. It’s a garbage lie, medically speaking, but I say it with enough confidence that Seungchan just shrugs. I've been keeping the shoulder bandaged constantly the last few weeks during meets and practice to hide the permanent raised scar of the original bond mark. I told coach and the team I've been having shoulder trouble and my PT insists on keeping it wrapped when I swim for support. They're buying it for now, and if someone pushes I can always get a note from one of the docs on my father's payroll.
I finish the taping job, checking the mirror. The beige strips cover the worst of it—the fresh claim marks Donghwa left on me during his rut. The guy is a creature of habit; he always goes for the left side, like he’s trying to bore a hole through my trapezius. The rest of my torso is thankfully clear, mostly because I spent the last forty-eight hours face-down in a mattress while he used my ass like a stress ball.
I wince as I stand up. My lower back screams. My hole feels like it’s been stretched two sizes too big and then stuffed with sandpaper. I have to lock my knees to keep from waddling.
God damn him.
"Let's go," I bark, grabbing my goggles. "I’m not losing to Hangul Tech. Those nerds swim like they’re afraid of getting wet."
The humidity hits me first, thick and heavy, followed by the roar of the crowd. It’s a wall of sound that makes my chest swell, the kind of validation I could hook up to an IV drip and live offof for weeks. I stride out onto the pool deck, chin up, chest out, letting the lights glare off my skin. I know I look good. I spent twenty minutes shaving down last night—before getting dragged to a penthouse and mauled—so I’m aerodynamic and gleaming.
"Let's crush these chumps," Seungchan yells, slapping his own chest hard enough to leave a handprint.
"Focus," I tell him, snapping the elastic of my goggles against the back of my head. It stings, a sharp little wake-up call. "Lane four is mine."
I step up to the block, shaking out my arms. My triceps are tight, my lower back is a disaster zone, and I’m pretty sure my asshole is currently filing a grievance with HR, but the adrenaline is doing a decent job of masking the damage. I scan the stands, a habit I can’t break. I need to know who’s watching. I need to see the omegas leaning over the railings, the envy on the faces of the beta guys, the—
I freeze.
My hands drop to my sides.
There, front and center in the bleachers reserved for the Visual Design department, is a void in the universe.
Kang Donghwa.
