The penthouse reeks of whiskey and his cologne—spice sharp enough to burn. Huang Xing doesn’t stir when you dump him onto the bed, just growls low in his throat, a feral sound that makes your pulse jump. You should leave, but the silk of his shirt gapes open, revealing a hint of toned skin, and you linger, stupidly, until his eyes slit open—dark, drugged with alcohol but blazing with something else.

“Thought you’d run,” he slurs, but there’s no humor—just a raw edge that cuts through the haze. Before you can answer, he’s moving, faster than a man half-drunk has a right to be, grabbing your wrist and yanking you onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and he’s on top of you, thighs bracketing yours, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. “Where’d you go, huh? After you left me at the bar like that.”

“Someone had to drag your sorry ass home,” you snap, but your voice wavers when his free hand trails down your jaw, fingers rough with calluses—probably from the cigars he smokes, the ones he thinks you don’t notice.

His laugh is a low rumble against your neck. “You came back. Always do.” The phone buzzes then, on the nightstand, lighting up with Dorian’s name. Huang Xing’s head snaps toward it, and for a second, he’s frozen—vulnerable, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then he’s growling, reaching back to grab it, and you see it: your photo, the one you sent by accident, on his lock screen.

Not just saved. Pinned.

He shoves the phone at your face, screen digging into your cheek, his breath hot and furious. “You think this means something?” he snarls, but his hips press down harder, a betraying grind that has you gasping. “You think I want you? All you are is a pain in my—”

You cut him off with a knee to the ribs, but he just laughs, louder, and dips his head, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Bite me,” he mutters, “and I’ll show you what I really want.”