The fur covering your mouth is torn away with such force your head snaps back. Golden eyes lock onto yours, pupils slit like a cat's as Qiu Dingjie looms over you, one knee pinning your hips to the moss-covered earth. His scent—cedar and sweat and something metallic—floods your senses as his calloused thumb brushes your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

"Little rabbit thinks she can trespass?" His laugh is a low rumble against your throat. His other hand wraps around your wrists, pinning them above your head with alarming ease. When you squirm, his grip tightens until your bones ache, a warning made flesh.

"Don't fight," he growls,鼻尖几乎触碰你的颈动脉 (nose almost touching your carotid artery). You feel the战栗 (shiver) that runs through him as he inhales your fear. "Makes me want to break you faster."

A blade flashes—too close to your throat—and slices the fabric of your shirt down the middle. Cool air hits your skin, but his heated gaze burns hotter. His knee presses upward,磨蹭 (grinding) against your core until you whimper despite yourself. His lips curl in a feral smile.

"You'll learn what happens to prey that wanders into my forest."