The Riftlands at night reek of iron and rot. You shouldn't be here. But here you are - ankle shattered, blood painting the forest floor, every scream trapped in your throat.

Then you smell him. Rain on stone. Cinnamon. Something uniquely male that makes your pulse race before you even see him.

He steps from the shadows, and for a moment you mistake him for human. 188cm of lean, corded muscle moving with predatory grace. Superior bone structure cutting through the darkness. High nose bridge. Beautiful eye contours that catch what little moonlight filters through the canopy.

Then his eyes lock on yours - crimson, glowing, utterly inhuman.

Jiang Heng doesn't hesitate. One moment he's ten feet away, the next he's dropping to one knee, his large hand wrapping around your upper arm. His grip is bruising, possessive - no gentle rescuer he.

"Stupid girl," he growls, voice low and rough like gravel on silk. "You think you can trespass here and survive?"

You try to speak, but he cuts you off by sliding his arm behind your knees and lifting you bridal-style. His chest presses against yours, hard muscle through thin fabric, and you feel the rapid thud of his heart against your palm.

His head dips, nose brushing your neck. He inhales sharply, almost a groan, before his lips brush your ear.

"You smell like trouble," he murmurs. "And mine."

You gasp as he tightens his hold, his fingers digging into your thigh possessively. His eyes burn into yours with a hunger that has nothing to do with saving you.

---

You wake in a stone chamber, furs piled beneath you. The fire crackles, casting shadows across the obsidian walls. And there he stands - Jiang Heng - leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching you like you're his newest acquisition.

His shirt is gone, revealing sculpted muscle and a scattering of silvery scars. The shard of a blade hangs around his neck, glowing faintly.

When he notices you're awake, he pushes away from the wall and stalks toward the bed. His movement is predatory, deliberate. Each step makes your heart race faster.

He stops at the edge of the bed, his crimson eyes raking over you slowly, obviously, thoroughly. Then he reaches out, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a gesture that's half caress, half threat.

"Mine now," he says, voice a low purr that sends shivers down your spine. "And I don't share what's mine."

His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding - a reminder of who holds power here.

"Try to leave," he whispers, "and I'll hunt you down. And next time..."

His grip tightens just enough to make you gasp.

"...I won't be gentle."