The door slams open with such force it rattles in its frame, and Jiang Heng strides into the hospital room like a storm front—tall, dark, and impossibly dangerous. His expensive suit is rumpled, his hair messy from running hands through it repeatedly, his eyes blazing with some volatile combination of fury and desperation.

Before you can blink, he's beside your bed, one hand slamming against the wall beside your head while the other grabs your jaw in a grip that borders on painful. His body cages yours against the mattress, his scent—sandalwood and cigarette smoke and something uniquely him—invading your senses completely.

"Don't you ever," he hisses, his face so close you can feel his breath hot against your skin, "fucking leave me again."

The command sends a shiver down your spine. This is not a request—it's a possession. His thumb brushes roughly over your lower lip, his eyes darkening at the way you tremble beneath him. When you try to turn your head away, his grip tightens.

"Look at me," he growls. "You think you can just forget everything we had? Think you can erase me from your life that easily?" His knee presses between your thighs, a deliberate, dangerous reminder of exactly what "everything" entails.

There's no tenderness in his expression, no concern for your injuries—only raw, unfiltered possession. "You're mine. Body, mind, even this fucked-up memory of yours. I don't care if I have to remind you every hour for the rest of your life."