The first one, a guy with bleached hair and a choker, slides up to the edge of the booth. His eyes fix on me, wide and hopeful.
“Hey,” he says, his voice pitched to carry over the music. “You’re Ha Yujeong, right? I saw you fight a few weeks ago. You were amazing.”
I give him a flat look. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t take the hint. He leans in closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m good.”
Wooil, the bastard, is grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. He leans back in the booth, hisarm still draped over my shoulders, and addresses the omega with exaggerated politeness.
“He’s good, but I’ll take one. What are you offering?”
The omega’s attention flickers to Wooil, uncertain. His friends have moved in now, crowding around the booth. One of them, a girl with dark hair and a dress that’s mostly straps, perches on the armrest beside Dojoon. Another slides in next to Wooil, all smiles and batting eyelashes.
Wooil is eating it up. He likes the attention, the validation, the way they laugh at his jokes and touch his arm. It’s harmless, mostly. He’s got his on-again, off-again girlfriend, but he’s never been one to turn down a little flirtation.
I, on the other hand, am already done.
The bleached-haired omega is still hovering, his gaze locked on me. He shifts his weight, leaning in just a little more. I catch the faint, sweet scent of his pheromones. It does nothing for me.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he tries again, his voice dropping into what I’m sure he thinks is a sultry register.
I meet his eyes, my expression carefully neutral. “I’m sure.”
Wooil laughs, loud and unrestrained. “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. He’s picky.”
The omega’s smile falters, just a little. He straightens, his pride clearly stung, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he turns his attention to the conversation, trying to wedge himself into the group. His friends are doing the same, settling in like they’ve been invited.
I give it another thirty seconds before I’ve had enough. The booth feels too crowded, the air too warm. The omegas’ voices are high and bright, cutting through the music in a way that grates. Wooil is in his element, holding court, his arm now around the one who sat beside him. Dojoon is flirting shamelessly with the girl in the strappy dress. The other guys are equally occupied.
I slide out of the booth without a word. No one notices, or if they do, they don’t care. Wooil is too busy laughing at something one of the omegas said, his face flushed with alcohol and attention.
The crowd swallows me as I move toward the bar. It’s a relief, the anonymity of it. Just another body in the press, no one looking at me with that expectant, hungry expression. I shoulder my way through a cluster of people dancing too close to the bar and finally break through to the counter.
The bartender, a beta woman with a shaved head and a nose ring, catches my eye immediately. She’s good at her job, quick and no-nonsense. I like that.
“Whiskey. Neat,” I say, raising my voice to be heard.
She nods and turns to grab a bottle from the shelf behind her. I lean against the bar, my elbows resting on the sticky surface, and let myself breathe.
I’m about to take another drink when I catch a scent threading through the thick soup of other scents that fill the club. It’s different. Sharper. The unmistakable signature of alpha pheromones, but not the aggressive, posturing kind that most of the alphas in here throw around. This is subtler, more confident. It makes something in my chest tighten with interest.
I turn, scanning the crowd near the bar. It takes a second, but then I spot him.
He’s leaning against the bar about ten feet down, tall and built in a way that suggests he actually uses his body for something other than looking good in a mirror. Dark hair swept back, strong jaw, the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants without much effort. He’s dressed well but not flashy. A fitted black shirt, dark jeans. Simple and confident.
An alpha. A real one.
My pulse kicks up a notch. This could be promising.
I push off the bar and make my way over, weaving through the people crowding around trying to get the bartender’s attention. When I’m close enough, I lean against the bar beside him, angling my body so I’m facing him but not crowding his space. Not yet.
“Busy night,” I say, pitching my voice to carry over the music but keeping it casual.
He glances over, his eyes doing a quick sweep of me. I see the moment of assessment, the flicker of interest. His lips curve into an easy smile.
“Always is on a Saturday,” he replies. His voice is smooth, relaxed. He doesn’t seem bothered by my approach, which is a good sign. “You come here often?”
