Light broke through the translucent curtains. The neon of the night was gone, and the city breathed differently: with the morning signals of cars, the hum of avenues somewhere down below. But here, high in the penthouse, there was an almost dead silence.
Do-yun opened his eyes—and immediately squeezed them shut again. A shaft of sunlight cut across his retina. The sheet clung to his skin, cold air glided over damp trails, and his body was a memory of the night, filled with an aching exhaustion. Every muscle held the memory.
He turned his head. His heart stumbled.
Seung-ho was sleeping next to him. His breathing was deep, even. In the sunlight, his face looked calm, almost serene—as if everything that had happened was completely natural.
But for Do-yun, it was a condemnation.
He slowly sat up, the sheet slipping from his shoulder. The cold air touched his skin. He wanted to stand, but a treacherous stickiness trickled down the inside of his thighs. Slick and semen ran down his legs, reminding him of how his body had completely surrendered.
He inhaled sharply. His cheeks flushed. Every movement intensified the stickiness, making it even more obvious.
He had betrayed himself. The detective, his duty, everything he had built. He had been weak—and he had allowed the alpha to break him completely.
...The cold glass against his back. ...Lips that had stolen his breath. ...The hard cock inside him, the weight and taste that had made his body tremble. ...Fingers that had left red marks on his skin. ...The moan that had torn from his throat, and the hot fluid that had filled him to the end. ...And then—the warmth of a hand holding him, not letting him fall.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Memories mingled with the present. Every aching pain inside, every mark on his skin, was a reminder: it was all real.
He abruptly pulled on his shirt. The buttons wouldn't cooperate, his fingers trembling. The fabric didn't hide the scent—he could still smell the pheromones mixed with a stranger's breath.
Seung-ho was sleeping. Calm. Strong. And that calmness was the most powerful blow of all.
Do-yun turned away. If he stayed for another minute, it would be over—he would never be able to leave.
He took a step. Then another. His bare feet touched the cold parquet, and each step sounded too loud.
He paused at the door. His hand rested on the doorknob. Guilt burned. Fear urged him to run. But a longing pulled him back—into the warmth of the breath beside him.
He took a deep breath, opened the door.
The corridor met him with emptiness and cold. Expensive paintings, straight lines—alien and lifeless. The elevator was waiting.
The metal doors gleamed, reflecting his image. In the mirror—disheveled hair, a crumpled shirt, red marks on his neck and chest. And the realization: the betrayal of the night was still flowing inside him.
He looked away. He had to leave.