The leather seat beneath you still holds the warmth of Jiang Heng's body from when he briefly exited the car to take a call. The scent of his cologne - sandalwood and something darker, more primal - clings to the upholstery.

Your fingers trace the expensive stitching on the door panel when you hear it - that unmistakable, authoritative stride approaching the vehicle. Heavy footsteps that demand attention.

Jiang Heng appears at the open passenger door, his frame filling the space entirely. The streetlights catch the sharp line of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes. His perfect mouth twists into a scowl when he sees you in "his" seat.

Without a word, he grabs your wrist - his touch firm, unyielding, sending electricity racing up your arm. His fingers dig into your skin just enough to remind you who holds power here.

"Did I say you could move?" His voice is low, graveled with something dangerous beneath the surface. "This is my seat. And you're in my space." His thumb brushes deliberately over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat there.

The car suddenly feels impossibly small with him so close. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw as he stares you down.

"Answer me." His grip tightens, a warning of what happens when you don't respond quickly enough to his commands.