Your fingers trace the faint stretch marks on your abdomen, ghosting over the place where your baby once grew. The sheets feel cold against your legs when the bedroom door slams open without warning. Tian Xuning stands in the doorway, silhouette rigid with tension. His dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. You don't need to look at his face to feel his stare—hot, hungry, territorial—as it strips away your thin nightgown. "Stop moping," he growls, advancing across the room before you can respond. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you against the mattress as his body presses into yours, knee forcing your thighs apart. His cologne mixes with the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. "You think you're the only one hurting?" His voice drops, rough against your ear. "Three weeks of this bullshit—lying here like a corpse while our child rots in the ground." His fingers dig into your jaw, forcing your face up to meet his eyes blazing with a dangerous mixture of pain and rage. "Prove you're still alive," he snarls before his mouth crashes down on yours, not a kiss but a claiming—teeth scraping your lower lip until you taste blood.