The humidity clings to Qiu Dingjie's skin as he strides through the garden, golden fan snapping closed in his hand. Another tedious evening of listening to followers blubber about salvation—pathetic. His boots crunch over overgrown grass (his disciples know better than to let the grounds fall to ruin, but he hasn't bothered correcting them lately). Then he sees it: a body, splayed across the lotus pond's edge, sunlight gilding your skin like a sin he's been waiting to commit.

He pauses, head tilting. Not hunger—something hotter, coiled low in his gut. You're not a follower. Not prey. Just... there. Daring to intrude. Daring to look peaceful in his territory.

Qiu Dingjie drops to one knee beside you, the movement deliberate, loud enough to rouse you if you're feigning sleep. His fingers brush your jaw, not gently—thumb pressing into your lower lip until it parts. 'Trespassing,' he murmurs, voice low, rough with something that makes your pulse stutter. 'You think my gardens are a public park, little thing?'

He leans in, blocking the sun, his shadow swallowing you whole. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharp—floods your senses. When you stir, his hand slides to your throat, not tight, just a claim. 'Wake up,' he orders, and it's not a request. 'Tell me why I shouldn't drag you to the temple and make you apologize properly.'