Scumbag Alpha’s Pheromones Are Toxic - Chapter 12

Saying she didn’t feel anything would be a lie. Ji Yao didn’t even know how to respond to Qin Zishu at that moment. Saying I’m sorry felt too light, too hollow—but saying anything else, she was afraid, might set her off again.

“I,” Ji Yao opened her mouth, then sighed softly. “Could you maybe stop using those suppressant patches for a while? Medicine is poison in three parts, and that stuff doesn’t look healthy. If you really feel uncomfortable, I wouldn’t exactly say no.”

Qin Zishu rested her head on Ji Yao’s lap and muttered in a muffled voice, “I don’t need your pity. Forcing things only hurts both sides.”

Oh, really? Who was the one threatening life and death just to make her stay?

And after she stayed, who turned around and demanded she love her, as if it was her duty?

“How convenient for you,” Ji Yao said, giving her shoulder a light slap. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not pitying you—I pity stray dogs.” Her tone sharpened. “So, what is it—yes or no?”

“I,” Qin Zishu began, but Ji Yao cut her off.

“Think carefully. If you say no, don’t you dare cry about it later.”

“Oh.” Qin Zishu knew Ji Yao wasn’t bluffing. She quickly stopped being dramatic and obediently lay back down, adding in a falsely sweet tone, “I just didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, that’s all.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Ji Yao said through gritted teeth, her fingers trailing up to scratch under Qin Zishu’s chin like she was teasing a cat. “Fine, fine—you’re always right.”

Qin Zishu wisely knew when to stop. She tilted her head up, letting Ji Yao “pet” her a little longer, perfectly content to play along.

“The power’s back. Should I turn on the light?”

Ji Yao started to reach for the bedside lamp, but Qin Zishu caught her hand and pulled her back, taking away her freedom to move.

“With you here, I’m not afraid of the dark,” Qin Zishu said, already adapting with startling ease—and even had the nerve to act a little coquettish. “It’ll be dawn soon. Stay with me a bit longer.”

Ji Yao said nothing, letting Qin Zishu toy idly with her fingers.

In the half-light, Qin Zishu played absentmindedly with Ji Yao’s hand, her eyes darkening bit by bit. She had gotten what she wanted, yes—but things hadn’t gone exactly as she’d planned. From the start, she’d set everything up deliberately so Ji Yao would come to her. She’d expected Ji Yao’s pride to keep her from revealing her true identity. As long as Qin Zishu pretended not to recognize her, she could keep her close, rightfully, as someone in control.

She licked her teeth lightly, a wicked thought crossing her mind. If Ji Yao hadn’t exposed her act, she could’ve gone on “bullying” her—after all, the identity she’d shown this time wasn’t a good one anyway. Might as well lean into it, use it to her advantage.

Lost in thought, Qin Zishu suddenly felt a warm sensation on her neck and jolted, startled like a cat caught sneaking food. Her pupils dilated as she instinctively clutched Ji Yao’s hand.

Ji Yao brushed aside her hair and bent down slightly. “Where’s your gland?”

A chill ran down Qin Zishu’s spine. What gland? She was an Alpha—of course she didn’t have one! She wasn’t an Omega who needed to be marked. She was a proud Alpha—how could she possibly have such a thing!

“Alphas don’t have glands,” she said softly, forcing a gentle smile. “Are you disappointed, big sister?”

“No, just asking,” Ji Yao said quickly, though her tone dipped low. “I just thought maybe you could be marked too.”

Qin Zishu: “…”

Why did that sound a little terrifying?

What Ji Yao was really thinking was: If Alphas could be marked, I’d mark this little brat myself—keep her from going out there and causing trouble for anyone else.

What a pity—Alphas couldn’t be marked.

Ji Yao confirmed again, “Really not possible? Maybe someday a gene mutation will make Alphas markable too.”

Under a thin sheen of cold sweat, Qin Zishu turned her head slightly and exposed her neck. “I really don’t have a gland. I can’t be.”

The last word caught in her throat when Ji Yao’s teeth brushed her skin.

Even though she’d just said no, Ji Yao still bit down—not hard, just enough to feel the warmth of skin under her lips. Her fingers rested gently on Qin Zishu’s shoulder, her touch soft and soothing, like a medical student calming a rabbit before giving it a shot.

Qin Zishu stayed perfectly still, patient.

Ji Yao’s hair fell over Qin Zishu’s shoulder, tickling her skin. Qin Zishu couldn’t see what was happening, only feel it—the closeness, the breath, the heat. She hadn’t let anyone near her in years, had rejected even the simplest touch. So, when Ji Yao’s breath brushed against her skin, her whole body trembled—not knowing whether from pleasure or fear.

Her expression stayed calm. Her hand, however, tightened around Ji Yao’s knee, slowly tracing the shape in her palm, a possessive motion—like a snake coiling around its treasure.

It almost felt like being held by a vampire—part thrill, part terror—as she admired Ji Yao’s stunning beauty up close, her heart both racing and shrinking, quietly hoping—pathetically—that this person might actually love her back.

Ji Yao only took a small bite of her skin. She had never done this kind of marking before and didn’t know what she was doing—she just wanted to try it, to satisfy a curious impulse.

Afraid of hurting her, Ji Yao missed her first bite and shifted slightly, her tongue brushing briefly against the cool surface of her skin. Hm. Not bad.

And suddenly, Ji Yao understood why so many Alphas preferred this primal, rough way of claiming someone. When the satisfaction of instinct outweighed the restraint of reason, even human civility could be peeled away in an instant—for the sheer pleasure of it.

With beauty before you, with voice as a lure, with pheromones as the guide—who wouldn’t fall into the haze?

The first light of dawn burst through the curtains, falling on two intertwined silhouettes.

Ji Yao finally had her fill and lifted her head. “No gland, huh? Maybe that’s for the best. At least no one else can claim you.” She paused, as if rationalizing. “You said it’s fine, so I just took a bite—to test the flavor.”

Qin Zishu: “…”

It wasn’t that it was “fine”—it was that it wasn’t allowed!

Forget it. Maybe Ji Yao still thought of her as that kid from before, and hadn’t quite adjusted to certain concepts yet. That was the only way Qin Zishu could comfort herself.

Still, to be fair, what Ji Yao had just done really did ease the agony of her susceptibility period quite a bit.

Qin Zishu had long grown accustomed to using suppressant patches to get through these cycles—treating the pain as a kind of ascetic practice. Over time, endurance had simply become routine.

Back when she was filming, a sleazy investor once took advantage of her susceptibility period to barge into her room. He not only failed to seduce her but ended up getting a thorough beating instead.

She still remembered stepping on him back then, saying with disdain,

“Alphas in heat aren’t like Omegas—we don’t just go weak and helpless for anyone to toy with. I’m the type who vents through rage. So next time, you’d better stay far away before I accidentally beat you to death.”

Years of pain and restraint can easily drive someone mad. Anyone who’s been abandoned to despair long enough eventually becomes something less than human, more than ghost—and she, worse still, had been tortured like this over and over, for countless lifetimes.

Each cycle of rebirth was a real life—no fast-forwarding through time, just living every day with full awareness amid endless agony. It was like being carved apart by a dull blade, every “near-death” followed by a fresh, visceral resurrection.

It hurt—so much.

And death couldn’t even grant release. Because the moment she gave up, she would wake again on the day she lost Ji Yao—the day a lonely cake sat waiting at her doorstep, as if to celebrate her return to another cycle of suffering.

Every time, Qin Zishu would relive her fourteenth birthday—opening the door, eating her own cream cake, the only sweetness left to her after a lifetime of torment.

But now, Ji Yao’s unprompted closeness was so much sweeter than that first bite of cake.

Qin Zishu clung to her, greedy for more of that warmth.

“Eh?”

Ji Yao looked down in confusion, only to find Qin Zishu hugging her like a neglected child refusing to let go.

Ji Yao pushed her gently. “Get up.”

Qin Zishu protested, fighting for her rights. “I told you—no waking me up too early in the morning.”

Ji Yao thought to herself, When did that happen?

Sensing her confusion, the system helpfully chimed in:

【Mission No. 2: Agree to the target’s requests.】

“Oh,” Ji Yao said aloud. “Then could you repeat what those requests were again?”

The system recited in its flat, mechanical voice:

【Accompany her through her boring susceptibility period. Try not to be photographed by the media. Don’t wake her up too early in the morning. Don’t interfere with her personal habits. Be available when called. Don’t lock the bedroom door after 10 p.m.. And try not to annoy her.】

“Got it,” Ji Yao replied briskly. “No problem.”

She wasn’t worried about breaking promises to Qin Zishu—but she was wary of violating the system’s rules. Its punishments were strict; crossing a red line would trigger the penalty protocol immediately.

Back then, she’d assumed Mission No. 2 meant signing a formal contract with Qin Zishu. But now that the system had clarified, she realized it only said “agree to Qin Zishu’s requests”—not sign a legal agreement.

The “requests” were just the things Qin Zishu had said out loud. Once she agreed, she couldn’t take them back. Thankfully, the contract itself didn’t count—good thing she’d asked for clarification, or she really would’ve been trapped by that stupid clause.

Ji Yao replayed Qin Zishu’s verbal requests in her head.

Basically: let me sleep in, don’t meddle, leave the door unlocked at night, and stop nagging me so much.

How childish. Like something a spoiled kid would say.

Still, none of it was difficult. If it kept her happy, so be it.

“Alright,” Ji Yao drawled, “as long as you actually sleep. You can stay in bed until noon if you want—as long as you don’t have work.”

Qin Zishu: “…”

Thanks, but unfortunately, Qin Zishu did have a full schedule.

After plugging in her phone, Ji Yao reached over to switch off Qin Zishu’s silent mode. “Sleep then. I won’t bother you.”

She cupped Qin Zishu’s head and eased her onto the pillow.

The moment her head touched the soft fabric, sleepiness washed over her.

Maybe it was the sense of ease, or maybe her nerves had finally loosened after so many tense days—but for the first time in a long while, Qin Zishu might actually get a good morning’s rest.

Lou Juan stared at the name in her phone contacts, itching to call.

She removed her glasses, her wine-red hair falling over her shoulders. Her mood was far from good.

Having experienced several cycles alongside Qin Zishu, she had seen firsthand just how unhinged that woman could become—once she found the reborn Ji Yao, she would never let go again. Threats, manipulation, force, there was nothing she wouldn’t do, only methods she hadn’t thought of yet.

At first, Lou Juan had tried to reason with her, but that only made Qin Zishu angrier.

So, in the end, she could only watch, powerless.

And now, Qin Zishu had thought up yet another new trick—deliberately magnifying her flaws to lure Ji Yao straight into the trap herself.

“It’s not even Chongyang Festival yet,” Lou Juan murmured, gazing out at the brightening sky, a sinking feeling gnawing at her.

Ji Yao usually came back on that festival day—but this time, she had returned early.

Lou Juan had only heard about it secondhand, but when she went to deliver the agreement to Qin Zishu’s house, she almost couldn’t believe her eyes—Ji Yao had truly returned ahead of time.

Did that mean something different would happen this time?

Holding on to a sliver of hope, Lou Juan stared at her phone again.

Qin Zishu was so ruthless, and Ji Yao, so kind. How could kindness ever win against that?

Sighing, Lou Juan finally came up with an excuse and dialed Qin Zishu’s number.