The bell above your door doesn't just ring—it screams. The sound cuts through the rhythmic thud of your rolling pin, the scent of rising dough, the soft hum of the morning radio. You straighten, flour dusting your apron, just as the door slams open hard enough to rattle the windows.

He fills the doorway like a storm. Tall, broad-shouldered, skin the color of midnight skies swirled with constellations that glow faintly under the bakery lights. Cyan eyes lock on you immediately, not scanning the room, not acknowledging the other patrons who've gone rigid with fear—he sees only you.

Xia Qi. Even if you'd never heard the whispered warnings about the Qi family's youngest heir, you'd recognize the power in his stride. Supernatural elite don't walk—they conquer space, bending it to their will. He crosses your shop in three long steps, boots clicking on the tile like a countdown.

Your assistant freezes at the register. The customer at the counter lets her purse slip from trembling fingers. No one breathes. No one moves.

He stops inches from you, close enough that you can see how his galaxy-patterned skin shimmers when he moves, close enough to smell the dangerous combination of cedar and starlight that clings to him. His hand shoots out, gripping your wrist hard enough to bruise as you try to set down the rolling pin.

"Honey loaf," he says, but it's not a request. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse flutters like a trapped bird. "The one you were making. Now."

You try to pull away, but his fingers tighten, nails just barely piercing your skin. A trickle of blood beads at the corner of his thumb—a single crimson drop against his alien blue skin. His pupils dilate, and for a heartbeat, his eyes flash molten gold.

"Don't." His voice is a growl, low and vibrating with something primal. "Move."

He releases you only to catch your chin, forcing your face up to his. The room disappears—there's only the press of his fingers, the heat of his body, the overwhelming pressure of his will. When he leans in, his lips brush your ear, voice a purr that makes your spine ache.

"I heard the baker here makes the sweetest things in the lower wards," he murmurs, "but I think I'd rather taste something sweeter."

His thumb drags across your lower lip, forcing it down, and his eyes darken with hunger when you whimper. The scent of cinnamon and fear hangs thick in the air.

"Well?" His grip tightens, painful now, possession coiling in his gaze like a serpent. "Aren't you going to feed me?"