Page 67 of Out Alpha'd

My phone buzzes on the rug beside me. Seungchan again.

Bro, where are you? Hyunjin is asking if you’re coming. He says he brought the good stuff.

I stare at the screen, the blue light stinging my eyes. I can’t go out there. I can’t risk smelling an Omega and puking on my shoes, or worse, smelling an Alpha and getting a semi in the middle of the club. My reputation is fragile enough without me acting like a confused pervert in public.

I type back with one thumb.Can’t. Family emergency. Dad summoned me to the main estate for dinner. He’s screaming about quarterly projections. Save yourself.

It’s the perfect lie. Nobody questions a rich kid getting dragged into family drama.

RIP,Seungchan replies instantly.Drink one for me.

"Way ahead of you," I mutter, taking a swig straight from the bottle. It burns going down, hot and angry, but it doesn't drown out the noise in my head.

By Sunday evening, the self-pity has morphed into something physical. I feel like garbage. My skin feels too tight for my body, and there’s a dull, throbbing heat radiating from my bones. Icheck the thermostat. It’s set to a cool twenty degrees, but I’m sweating through my t-shirt.

"Great," I groan, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead. "Hangover fever. Just what I needed."

I stumble into the kitchen, dry-swallow two ibuprofen, and chug a glass of water. I just need to sleep it off. If I can just sleep for twelve hours, I’ll wake up, my brain will reset, and I can figure out how to get a laser to burn Donghwa’s claim off my neck without turning into a keloid monster.

I crawl into bed, burying my face in the pillow. It smells like me, but tonight, the scent feels irritating. Suffocating. I kick the duvet off, then pull it back on five minutes later when I start shivering.

I drift off eventually, but it’s not restful. It’s heavy, black, and full of static.

I wake up with a gasp, my lungs seizing like I’ve been underwater.

The room is pitch black, but my senses are screaming. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm that hurts. I’m drenched. My t-shirt is plastered to my chest, soaked through with sweat, and the sheets are damp beneath me.

I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness slams me back down.

"Fuck," I wheeze.

It’s hot. Unbearably, impossibly hot. It feels like someone lit a fire inside my marrow. And then I realize why the sheets feel so uncomfortable.

I’m hard. Painfully, rock-hard, straining against my boxers. And it’s messy. I realize with a jolt of humiliation that I came in my sleep. I haven't had a wet dream since I was fourteen and obsessed with my swim instructor.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to remember what I was dreaming about. But it’s gone, leaving behind nothing but avague, lingering sense ofneed. Not the usual 'I want to get laid' need. This is different. It’s a hollow, gnawing hunger in my gut that feels violent.

I roll over, kicking the damp sheets away, and the movement sends a spike of pleasure-pain straight to my groin.

The smell hits me then.

My scent is everywhere. It’s usually controlled, a carefully constructed blend of expensive cologne and alpha pheromones. Now? It’s raw. It smells like burning wood and aggression, thick enough to taste.

I scramble for my phone on the nightstand, my fingers shaking so bad I almost drop it. I check the date.

September 18th.

"No," I whisper, my voice raspy. "No, no, no."

My cycle isn't due for another three weeks. I’m regular. I’m clockwork. I take my suppressants; I track my dates. I am the master of my own biology.

But my body isn't listening to logic. A cramp twists in my lower abdomen, sharp and hot, and a low growl rips out of my throat without my permission.

This isn't a hangover. It’s a Rut. And it’s not creeping up on me like usual, giving me a day or two of irritability before the fever hits. This is a ambush. It’s hitting me at a hundred miles an hour, skipping the foreplay and going straight to the delirium.

I curl in on myself, clutching my stomach as another wave of heat washes over me. It’s the bond. It has to be. My body thinks it has a mate now. It thinks it has somewhere to put all this aggression and lust, so it’s ramping up production, preparing to knot and claim and breed.

But I’m alone.