The campfire casts flickering shadows when he finds you.

"What the hell you doin' out here alone?" Cheng Yixie's voice is low, graveled, more growl than question. His boots crunch on dead leaves as he circles you, like a wolf assessing prey. You can smell whiskey on his breath, mixed with gunpowder and pine.

You stand your ground. "Just needed some air."

He laughs—a short, bitter sound. "Air? Or you lookin' for trouble?"

Before you can answer, he's on you. Back against a tree, his forearm pressing into your throat, just hard enough to remind you who's in control. His face is inches from yours, those dark eyes burning into you like he's stripping you bare with just a look.

"You think you can handle this life?" he sneers, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back. "Think you can handle me?"

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond—brutal, unyielding, teeth grazing your lower lip until you taste blood. He groans when you bite back, surprising him, and suddenly his hands are everywhere—ripping at your shirt, groping your breast through thin fabric, pressing his thigh between your legs.

"You're askin' for it," he mutters against your neck, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down to cup your sex through your skirt, fingers pressing roughly against your clit.

You whimper, and he smiles against your skin—a feral, dangerous thing.

"That's what I thought," he growls, grinding against you. "Now you gonna be a good girl and take what I give you?"

His belt buckle clinks as he unfastens it with one hand, never breaking eye contact. The message is clear: resistance is futile. This isn't a request.

It's a command.