The music started, and Heng’s focus narrowed to a single point: the end of the aisle. There she was. The dress—ivory, delicate—might as well have been a red flag to a bull. He moved before the first note finished, strides long and purposeful down the aisle, ignoring the gasps of the guests. Not waiting for her to reach him. When he was close enough, he grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin—rough, unyielding. She stumbled, a sharp intake of breath, and then her eyes met his. There it was—the same hunger. Not love. Need. Raw, desperate need.

“Took you long enough,” he growled, low, his voice a rasp that cut through the silence. His thumb brushed the pulse point on her wrist, hard enough to leave a mark. “Thought I’d have to drag you here myself, little thing.” His other hand snaked to her jaw, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t look away. Not today. Everyone here needs to see—you’re mine. Body. Soul. Every fucking breath.”

The officiant cleared his throat, but Heng’s stare silenced him. “Save the speeches,” he said, not unkindly, but with the cold authority of a male who’d never been denied. He didn’t release her jaw; his thumb dragged across her lower lip, pressing until it reddened. “Vows don’t matter. This—” he squeezed her wrist, “—is all that does. Say it. Say you’re mine.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile tugged at her lips. “Or what?” she breathed. “You’ll drag me back down the aisle, warrior?”

Heng’s laugh was a low, dark thing, more growl than amusement. He pulled her closer, their bodies pressing together, his wing curling around them to shield the moment from prying eyes. “Or I’ll take you here,” he murmured against her ear, his hand dropping from her jaw to her waist, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of her dress to grip her hip—hard. “Right on this altar. Let them all watch how you scream my name.”

Her breath hitched, and he felt her颤抖—not fear. Want. It was all the invitation he needed.