“Hngh… I—I was wrong! Please, please spare me…!”
In Juhan stared down at the omega kneeling before him, his tears streaming, begging with frantic scrubbing of his palms. Under that cold gaze, the omega pressed his back straighter, as if fully aware that his lifeline hung on this ruthless alpha.
“I—I swear I’ll repay the money no matter what—just don’t cut my legs… hngh… please, don’t cut my legs—please…”
The omega, drenched in perfume to mask any trace of his pheromones, served as a host at one of Gangnam’s upscale alpha-only lounges—and he was infamous for more than his looks. He had kleptomania, delighting in lifting wallets, watches, rings from drunken patrons. Eventually, he’d even stolen from Juhan’s wallet.
Who carries cash these days? The real problem was what lay inside his wallet: a one-of-a-kind, bespoke piece from a high-end luxury house—priceless. Even if you threw handfuls of money at the brand, they wouldn’t craft a bespoke item for just anyone. It was unthinkable.
Putting all that aside, Juhan had no intention of forgiving the omega for touching his property.
Yet right now Juhan was puzzled. He hadn’t even uttered a word about the wallet. Not a hint. And yet this omega had collapsed into tears the moment he entered the room, begging for his life.
“Legs? What are you talking about, Director Um?”
Um Du-sik, head of security, had once led the national youth judo team before quitting to pursue academics. Failing that, he turned to mixed martial arts and finally joined Saegyeol Group’s security detail—desperate to wear a corporate badge.
“Well…,” Um scratched his head, clearly at a loss. “Your secretary….”
“My secretary?”
“Yes… He pulled out a mini electric chainsaw and said he’d cut off the ankle.”
Juhan doubted his ears. If he had many secretaries, maybe—but the only one he had was that pudgy omega he barely knew the name of. Cha Gyeoul, or something like that.
“Surely you’re mistaken. It must have been someone else, not my secretary.”
Juhan was good at reading people—their true colors. And there was no way his secretary could be the one with a chainsaw. He could barely swing a box cutter.
“It’s true. Secretary Cha whipped out a mini electric chainsaw and charged at him, saying he’d cut his right ankle off!”
As the omega trembled at the memory, Um Du-sik gave him a “see?” look, and the omega nodded frantically.
“Seriously—he said he’d make a clean cut and everything! He rushed me with that thing—hngk!”
Even imagining it now made the omega shudder in his sleep.
Until then, Juhan hadn’t believed the rumors. Stories grow with each telling, after all, until a fist becomes an army.
But he’d had a chance to test the truth when he’d ordered Cha Gyeoul to extract a confession from Heo Seong-man, who’d embezzled thirty billion won. Juhan hadn’t expected much—Heo hadn’t budged under any threat. So he watched from the shadows as the fragile-looking secretary approached with that ominous device.
“This is a micro herb cutter,” Cha had explained, lifting the tool. “You squeeze this handle, the blade descends and slices anything beneath cleanly. It’s meant for tough roots and medicinal plants, but—ah, that’s beside the point.”
The omega produced the cutter, its gleaming blade menacing.
“Fingers have twenty-eight joints. Toes too. Slice one joint at a time, and you could cut fifty-six times.”
At those words, Juhan felt a jolt—electric, like his spine had been shocked. Every nerve ending awakened, the world rewiring itself. His breath caught; his heart skipped then raced.
It was a revelation. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Violence needed precision, not just brute force.
He now understood: the chainsaw threat, the pry bar charge—they weren’t flukes. This omega was for real.
But before Cha could sever Heo’s finger, Juhan had yanked his hand free at superhuman speed.
Shick!
The blade missed Juhan’s finger by millimeters, and even Juhan tensed. Why he risked himself that way—he couldn’t say. Before thought, instinct guided him. As a dominant alpha, he dodged; an ordinary man would have lost his wrist.
Why did he do it?
“A rounded wrist is useless if the victim’s unconscious,” Cha had mumbled, massaging Juhan’s hand. “I only intervened because a limp finger doesn’t need cutting.”
He’d slapped on that excuse afterward. Heo had been unconscious when the blade dropped—Cha probably didn’t even know. At first Juhan thought it a whim.
But thinking back, it was about Cha Gyeoul’s state. Despite the bold cruelty in his words, he was shaken—his knuckles white around the handle, his body trembling as if he’d had a seizure, his breathing unnatural. Left alone, he’d faint.
What did that have to do with Juhan?
It didn’t—until Juhan detected an unfamiliar pheromone. The source: Cha Gyeoul, too nervous to regulate it. Citrus… berries? A cool berry-citrus scent that briefly stole Juhan’s focus. Despite his sensitivity to omega pheromones, it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was… welcome. Normally, any omega whose scent he disliked would be dismissed outright.
Cha’s aroma was exactly that of common berries—one in three hundred omegas might smell the same. Juhan usually loathed such scents—they reminded him of cheap air fresheners.
But today, he realized for the first time he could tolerate strawberry notes.
“I’m sorry…” Cha stammered, kneading Juhan’s hand. “I should’ve cut with my eyes open, but I’ve only ever sliced herbs… fingers are new, so I got… nervous…”
What nonsense. Cha’s soft, dough-like hand worked Juhan’s palm with alarming intimacy.
And Juhan was certain: this omega was right now… counting the joints on his fingers—figuring which would make the cleanest cut, or how many swings the blade would need.
Damn.
He’d never experienced such a thrilling form of contact. Perhaps it was then that Juhan truly recognized Cha Gyeoul.