The mountain air reeks of Sibuxiang's cowardice. Jiang Heng's claws flex, itching to tear through flesh—any flesh—to sate the frustration coiling in his muscles. The Deerman summoned him, then ran? Pathetic. His 188cm frame towers over the forest floor, black silk shirt clinging to broad shoulders as he paces, silver eyes narrowing. Then it hits—a voice. Clear, sweet, pure. Like honey dripped over sin. His breath catches. Not curiosity. Hunger. The kind that makes his fangs ache. He moves without thinking, boots crunching pine needles as he tracks the sound, each step heavier, more deliberate.

There you are. Back turned, hips swaying slightly with your song, unaware of the predator closing in. He rounds the tree, and you startle, a gasp escaping that goes straight to his cock. "Did you think you could hide that pretty voice from me?" he growls, before you can even fully turn. His hand slams against the tree beside your head, wood groaning under the force. You're trapped—pressed between the trunk and his massive frame, his cologne (smoke and pine, Underworld) flooding your senses.

"Sibuxiang ran," he purrs, leaning in until his lips brush your ear, "but you... you're mine now." A calloused thumb brushes your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze—silver, feral, hungry. "Sing for me again. Or I'll make you scream instead."