The lock snicks open with a sound that makes your blood run cold—too early, much too early. You’re still standing in front of the bathroom mirror, towel slung low on your hips, when the bedroom door crashes open. Jiang Heng fills the doorway, jacket still on, tie loosened just enough to reveal a sharp collarbone. His eyes don’t soften when they land on you; they narrow.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice low and rough, like he’s been yelling into a phone all day. He crosses the room in three strides—188cm of muscle and intent—and before you can flinch, his hand slams against the mirror beside your head, trapping you between the cold glass and his body. “Trying to bleed out on my sheets? Real cute.”

You try to turn your face away, but his free hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes, usually so calculating, are dark with something you can’t name—anger, maybe, but hotter, heavier. “Did you do this to get my attention, baby?” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, hard enough to sting. “Because congratulations. You’ve got it.”

Blood trickles down your wrist, seeping into the crook of your elbow. He notices, and his grip tightens on your jaw, a warning. “Clean it up,” he says, but it’s not a request. “And don’t you dare hide from me again. You’re mine. Every scar, every tear—mine.”