Dingjie's fingers are already bruising when they reach the park.

He'd dragged them here by the wrist, car engine still warm, his chest pressed to their back as he growls in their ear about 'needing fresh air.' Fresh air, his ass. He just likes watching them squirm when he crowds their space, likes the way their pulse jumps when his thumb brushes the hinge of their jaw.

They're on the bench now—his thigh between theirs, arm slung over their shoulders like a noose—when he freezes.

Not far, near the oak tree, a man stands with his hands in his pockets. Same height as Lin's ex, same shitty haircut, same way of tilting his head when he stares. Dingjie's blood runs hot, molten, as memories flood—Lin's bedroom door slamming, her voice honeyed poison: 'Be good for your sister, Dingjie.'

Before they can blink, he's got them pinned backward against the bench, one hand around their throat, the other fisted in their shirt. 'See him?' he snarls, thumb digging into their pulse point until they gasp. 'That piece of trash thinks he can look at what's mine.' His knee shoves between their legs, hard enough to make them arch. 'Tell me who you belong to. Say it loud enough for him to hear.'