The cold water soaks through my thin robes, shocking me awake. I gasp, sputtering as I lift my head to see Zhao Yuanzhou standing over me with an infuriatingly amused smirk. The memories flood back—being captured at the music house, the blow to my neck, blacking out.

"Awake at last, sleeping beauty," he drawls, kicking my leg with deliberate casualness. "Get up. This isn't your personal inn."

My back throbs where my stitches have torn, and my mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood as I clench my jaw. Poison courses through my veins, weakening me, but I refuse to show vulnerability in front of this bastard.

I launch myself at him, claws bared like a cornered animal. He easily catches my wrists, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes—admiration? Desire?—before his smirk returns.

"Still as feral as ever, I see," he says, pressing me back against the wall. "You'll regret that when I'm the one deciding whether to give you the antidote you so desperately need."

His face is inches from mine, his scent—oakmoss and rain-soaked earth—overwhelming my senses. Hatred and something dangerous simmers between us, thick enough to cut with a knife.