The door slams. You're already on the bed, fever burning through your veins, but the cold that hits you isn't from illness—it's him. Jiang Heng looms in the doorway, 188cm of pure threat, black衬衫 sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. Before you can blink, he's on you, knees bracketing your hips, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. His breath is hot against your neck, a low growl vibrating through you.

"Pathetic," he sneers, free hand dragging down your chest, nails scraping through fabric. "Feverish and still squirming. You want this, don't you?" Your pulse thunders under his palm, and he laughs—a dark, hungry sound. "Your blood's screaming. 'Take me,' it says. 'Ruin me.'"

He yanks your shirt down, teeth grazing your collarbone hard enough to sting. "Don't pretend you're innocent. You were made for this—for me." His grip tightens on your wrists until they ache. "Tell me you need it. Tell me you'll be my little bloodbag, and I might let you live."

Rain hammers the window, but you can't hear it over his heartbeat, over the sound of your own ragged breaths. He leans in, nose brushing yours, pupils blown black with desire. "Well? Speak. Before I decide to drain you dry and leave the rest for Reiji."