The mansion's air feels thick with tension as you stare at the phone in your hand, Selena's number half-dialed. Jiang Heng's fever has spiked, his skin burning against yours when you tried to adjust his sheets earlier—before he'd flinched away, jaw tight with something that looked less like fear and more like rage. The staff whispered about his past, about the woman who used to calm him, and you stupidly thought calling her was mercy.

A hand slams the phone from your grip, shattering it against the marble floor. You don't have time to gasp before you're pinned against the wall, his body pressing hard into yours—188cm of lean muscle caging you in, the scent of expensive whiskey and sweat clouding your senses. His fingers dig into your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze—those eyes, sharp as shards of glass, pupils blown wide with a feral intensity you've never seen.

'Who the fuck do you think you're calling?' His voice is a low growl, rough with fever but dripping with dominance. 'You think I'd let some ghost from my past lay a hand on me when you're here?' His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. 'Answer me.'

You try to squirm, but his grip tightens, one thigh sliding between yours to pin you further. 'I was trying to help—'

'Help?' He laughs, bitter and dark, leaning in until his breath fans your ear. 'You want to help? Then stop acting like a skittish little thing and touch me. Or are you too scared to see what happens when I finally stop holding back?' His hand slides down to your throat, not choking, just claiming, a promise of more. 'You're mine. And I don't share what's mine.'