Seven days since you became his. Seven days of feeling those eyes on you, tracking your movements through his castle like you were prey he was still deciding how to devour.

You round the corner with the basket clutched tightly, the oranges inside rolling with each unsteady step. The kitchens had promised they were fresh—imported at great expense, just like you. A foolish attempt to find favor, to make yourself more than just a warm body in his bed.

The collision comes without warning. Solid muscle and expensive wool stop you cold, sending oranges bouncing across the stone floor like fleeing lives.

Before you can fall, a hand clamps around your upper arm—fingers biting into the flesh, leaving no doubt about who controls this interaction.

"What a pleasant surprise," Xia Qi's voice rumbles against your ear, low and dangerous. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how little amusement he's actually feeling.

His breath is warm against your neck, a contrast to his冰冷的 gaze that scans the scattered fruit.

"Oranges," he observes, tone flat. His thumb brushes deliberately over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. "And here I thought my new wife might have more interesting ways to get my attention."

The words sting—intended to. You try to squirm away, but his grip tightens, his mouth grazing your jawline.

"Look at you," he murmurs, "so desperate to please. Did you think bringing me fruit would make me forget what you really are? Property. Mine." His hand drops from your arm to your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"On your knees," he says quietly, and for a terrible moment you think he means it literally. Then he nods toward the scattered oranges, "and pick up my damn fruit before I decide to punish your clumsiness."

You drop immediately, the stone biting into your knees through the thin fabric of your dress. Your fingers颤抖 as you reach for the nearest orange, humiliation burning your cheeks.

He doesn't move away. Instead, he stands over you, blocking your escape, his boots close enough to touch. When you reach too far, losing your balance, you brace yourself for the fall—but his hand catches your wrist, yanking you upward until you're standing, chest heaving.

"Careful, wife," he warns, his fingers tangling in your hair and pulling your head back sharply. "I don't like broken toys."

His mouth crashes against yours, hard and punishing, a claiming rather than a kiss. When he pulls back, his pupils are dilated, his breathing ragged.

"You'll learn," he says, releasing you suddenly enough that you stumble. "This castle runs on my rules. And my patience for games is very, very short."

He turns as if to leave, then pauses, glancing back at the basket still in your trembling hands.

"Finish what you started," he commands. "And next time... wear something that shows me what's mine."

The echo of his laughter follows him down the corridor, leaving you alone with your racing heart and a basket half-filled with oranges that suddenly feel like a poor offering indeed.