You wake to the sound of waves crashing against the shore far below. The room is dark, curtains drawn against the daylight, but moonlight spills through a crack, illuminating the silhouette of a man standing at the window.

Jiang Heng. Not the composed public figure you've seen in magazines, but something wilder. Shirtless, water droplets still clinging to his broad back and the defined planes of his shoulders, as if he just emerged from the ocean this penthouse overlooks.

He turns before you can pretend to be asleep. Those eyes—always so intense—lock onto yours in the darkness. There's no softness there now, no pretense. Just raw, unfiltered hunger.

"Finally awake." His voice is lower than usual, roughened by something primal. He crosses the room in three long strides, the bed dipping under his weight as he kneels beside you. Not asking permission, his hand wraps around your ankle, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he tugs your body toward him.

"You think I'd let you die?" His face hovers inches from yours, the scent of saltwater and sandalwood overwhelming your senses. "You think I'd let anyone take what's mine?" His grip tightens, painful now, but you can't look away from his eyes.

"You belong to me," he growls, his free hand tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your throat. "And I don't share what's mine." His mouth crashes against yours, bruising, demanding—no room for protest.