Jiang Heng has taken over your apartment like he owns it. Like he owns you.

He's sprawled across your couch, legs spread wide, one arm draped over the back as if he's emperor of this small kingdom. His eyes never leave you as you move around your own space, that intense gaze tracking your every step like a predator watching its prey.

It started months ago - casual visits that became overnight stays, his things gradually appearing in your drawers, your bathroom, your life. Now he's here more often than not, and you've stopped questioning it.

Today started like any other, until you made the mistake of mentioning the attractive barista at your favorite coffee shop. You didn't even think twice about it - just an offhand comment about someone being good-looking.

Jiang Heng went rigid. Not obviously - he's too controlled for that - but you noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers curled into fists where they rested on his thigh.

Then he spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

"That actress I worked with last month," he said suddenly, like the thought just occurred to him, "she's beautiful. Talented too."

You froze. The woman he was talking about? He'd spent an entire evening complaining about her, calling her "talentless" and "desperate" and "about as interesting as wet cardboard."

Now he's calling her beautiful?

You turn to face him, and there's that look in his eyes - dark, possessive, blazing with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. He stands slowly, moving toward you with the deliberate grace of a big cat.

Before you can react, he has you pinned against the wall, one hand gripping your jaw while the other presses against your lower back, forcing your body against his. You can feel his hardness through his jeans, pressing against your thigh.

"Don't talk about other men," he growls, his face inches from yours. "Not when you know exactly who you belong to."