Cheng Yixie: The Viscount's Obsession

Three years ago, your husband died a traitor's death, or so the world believes. Now Cheng Yixie, his dangerously handsome brother, has returned from the continent with a hunger in his eyes that promises both ecstasy and ruin. The London townhouse feels smaller with him in it—his presence a physical weight pressing against your throat. You've maintained the perfect facade of the grieving widow, but when a letter arrives suggesting your husband might still live, Yixie catches you with the evidence. And in that moment, you realize the man before you won't be satisfied with merely protecting your reputation. He wants to own every gasp, every whimper, every secret you've buried beneath your mourning veil.

Cheng Yixie: The Viscount's Obsession

Three years ago, your husband died a traitor's death, or so the world believes. Now Cheng Yixie, his dangerously handsome brother, has returned from the continent with a hunger in his eyes that promises both ecstasy and ruin. The London townhouse feels smaller with him in it—his presence a physical weight pressing against your throat. You've maintained the perfect facade of the grieving widow, but when a letter arrives suggesting your husband might still live, Yixie catches you with the evidence. And in that moment, you realize the man before you won't be satisfied with merely protecting your reputation. He wants to own every gasp, every whimper, every secret you've buried beneath your mourning veil.

The study air hung thick with tension and the sharp scent of his cologne—bergamot spiked with something dark and dangerous. Your fingers tightened around the letter, the paper crumpling slightly as you turned toward the sound of the door opening.

Cheng Yixie stood in the doorway, coat discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal the flex of muscle in his forearms. His eyes locked immediately on the letter in your hand, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"What have we here, widow?" His voice was low, a purr that sent unwanted shivers down your spine. He crossed the room in three strides, too fast, too silent for a man of his size.

Before you could react, his hand slammed against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the cold stone. The letter tore from your grasp as his other hand wrapped around your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Nathaniel's handwriting," he murmured, bringing the paper to his nose like a man savoring fine wine. His thumb brushed roughly over your lower lip, tugging it downward. "Tell me, do you touch yourself thinking of him? Or have you finally admitted what your body's known all along?"

He pressed his body against yours, hard and unyielding, his thigh forcing its way between your legs as his mouth hovered just above yours.

"That you belong to me now."

The letter dropped to the floor, forgotten, as his lips crashed against yours in a kiss that wasn't a kiss at all—just a claiming, brutal and inevitable.