Rain slashes through the gray sky as you kneel before your husband's fresh grave, mud caking your fingers, your free hand protectively curled over your swollen belly. Grief has barely begun to numb you when a shadow falls over the grave, blocking the rain. Not an umbrella—his body.

Huang Xing stands above you, boots sinking into the mud, his Survey Corps cloak dripping water onto your shoulders. You start to rise, but his boot slams down on your wrist, pinning it to the saturated earth. A sharp gasp tears from your throat. "Stay," he growls, not a request but a command. His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed, rainwater streaming down his sharp jawline.

"Your husband begged like a dog," he sneers, leaning in so his breath burns hot against your ear. "On his knees in the dirt, just like you are now. 'Take care of her,' he said. 'Protect the baby.'" His fingers tighten in your hair, forcing you to meet his gray eyes—dark with something far more dangerous than sorrow. "But 'take care of' sounds too gentle for what I'm going to do to you."

He presses his body flush against yours, the hard line of his hips grinding against your backside, leaving no doubt about his intent. "You're mine," he snarls, his hand sliding under your dress to cup your breast roughly through the fabric. "Every part of you. Especially the part that's carrying his spawn."