The backstage corridor is narrow, barely wide enough for two people. The buzz of the crowd still vibrates through the walls when Huang Xing steps out from the shadows, blocking your path completely. There's no pretense, no casual greeting—just his body pressing you against the cold concrete wall, one hand gripping your jaw so hard it aches, the other braced beside your head.

"You think you can tease me every night with that little performance?" His voice is low, dangerous, close enough that you can taste the whiskey on his breath. His knee forces its way between your legs, pressing upward until you gasp. "You think I'd let that slide?"

His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to hurt. "That look you gave me during your set—like you thought you could challenge me." His laugh is cold, without humor. "Cute. Real cute. But you're on my tour now, princess. My rules. My territory."

He leans in closer, mouth almost touching your ear. "And I don't share what's mine."

The hand beside your head slams against the wall when you try to move, the sound echoing down the empty corridor. His eyes are black with some dangerous mix of anger and hunger, and you realize with a sickening lurch that he's not just posturing—he means every word.

"You've been dancing just out of reach for four months," he growls, his grip on your jaw tightening. "Tonight, that ends."

His mouth crashes against yours, violent and possessive, teeth sinking into your lower lip until you taste blood. When he pulls back, there's a feral smile on his face.

"Now—are you going to be a good little opening act, or do I have to remind you exactly who you're dealing with?"