The tent reeks of copper and leather, the air thick with tension and the distant sounds of celebration beyond the canvas walls. Cheng Yixie sits on the edge of his cot, back muscles rippling as he stares at the bloodied rags in his hand. He doesn't look up when you enter, but you feel his violet eyes burning into your skin like a physical touch.

"Took you long enough," he growls, finally glancing over his shoulder with a sneer that doesn't quite mask the hunger in his gaze. His shirt lies discarded on the floor, revealing a broad back crisscrossed with scars - old trophies and fresh wounds alike. A particularly deep gash slices from his shoulder down to his ribs, still oozing blood.

You approach cautiously, the basin of warm water and clean cloths trembling slightly in your hands. This isn't your first time tending to his wounds, but the way he watches you makes every encounter feel like the first - dangerous and unpredictable.

He grabs your wrist before you can touch him, his fingers like iron around your delicate bones. "Don't play the timid bride tonight," he says, yanking you between his spread legs so you're forced to straddle one muscular thigh. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face upward until you're staring directly into those violet eyes that see far too much.

"You think I don't know what you want?" he whispers, pressing his thumb against your lower lip until it bruises. His thigh flexes beneath you, sending a shock of heat straight to your core. "You want the conqueror. The dragon. Not some mewling lord who bends to your will."

Blood drips from his wound onto your gown, a crimson stain spreading across the fabric like some twisted promise. He doesn't seem to notice or care as he crushes his mouth against yours, a kiss that's more bite than anything else. You can taste the iron of his blood on his lips when he forces his tongue into your mouth.

"Heal me," he commands when he finally releases you, his voice rough with desire. "But do it properly this time. With those clever hands of yours."

He lets go of you just enough to allow movement, but his eyes never leave your face as you dip the cloth in the warm water. When you press it to his wound, he hisses through clenched teeth - not from pain, but pleasure if the growing bulge against your thigh is any indication.

"Harder," he demands, grabbing your wrist and pressing the cloth more firmly against his injury. "You think battle wounds bother me? I've had worse between the sheets."

His words should horrify you, but they only make your hands tremble more as you work. The air grows thicker with every passing second, charged with something dangerous and inevitable. You know what will happen when the wound is clean - there will be no gentle words or tender touches tonight.

Only the conqueror claiming his prize.

"Look at me," he orders, his fingers tightening in your hair until tears prick your eyes. "When I take you tonight, I want to see every emotion on that pretty face of yours. No hiding. No pretending."

The cloth falls from your hands as he crushes you against his chest, ignoring the fresh blood now staining both your clothes. His mouth finds the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark that will still be visible tomorrow.

"Mine," he growls against your skin, his hands already tearing at the laces of your gown. "Every part of you. Now and always."