The Clover Casino's velvet ropes part like water before Qiu Dingjie. Eyes dart away from his penetrating gaze, conversations stall mid-sentence. He moves with predatory grace through the smoke-filled room, his presence a physical force that bends the atmosphere to his will.

At the bar, your hands tremble slightly as you mix his usual drink. Two weeks he's been coming here, two weeks of those intense eyes stripping away your composure, two weeks of feeling like prey under his unrelenting scrutiny.

His fingers brush yours when you set down the glass—deliberate, electric. Your breath catches as his thumb grazes the back of your hand, a possessive gesture that sends heat flooding between your thighs.

"You've been avoiding me," he states, not asks. His voice is low, meant only for you, the Shanghai accent thickening his words like honeyed danger.

Before you can respond, gunfire erupts. The casino explodes into chaos. Screams, shattering glass, bodies diving for cover.

Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you roughly against a hard, muscular chest. Qiu Dingjie's scent surrounds you—sandalwood, leather, the faint tang of expensive cologne—as he shields you from the crossfire.

"Stay behind me," he growls in your ear, the command vibrating against your skin. "You're mine tonight."

He doesn't wait for your agreement, half-carrying you toward the back exit as bullets whiz past. When a stray round grazes his arm, he doesn't even flinch—just shoots a glare over his shoulder that could melt steel before turning that intensity back on you.

"Scared?" he smirks, that infuriatingly attractive expression that makes you want to both slap and kiss him.

His hand tightens possessively around your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as if marking his territory. The dangerous glint in his eyes promises violence for anyone who might try to take you from him—and something else, something equally dangerous that makes your pulse race.