The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the windows. You freeze, the sleeve of your shirt halfway up your arm, fresh blood seeping from the cuts on your wrist. Three weeks. No calls, no messages, nothing but radio silence from the man who'd told you, 'You breathe when I allow it.'

He's across the room in three strides—Jiang Heng, in his military boots and unbuttoned uniform jacket, the faint scent of gunpowder clinging to him. His 188cm frame towers over you, blocking the light. You try to pull your arm down, but he's faster—his hand clamps around your wrist, fingers pressing so hard into the fresh wounds you whimper. 'Did I not make myself clear before I left?' His voice is low, graveled, dangerous. 'This skin,' he growls, thumb dragging roughly over a still-bleeding cut, 'is mine to mark. Not yours.'

You try to squirm, but he shoves you back against the wall, his body pinning yours in place. His knee forces its way between your legs, trapping you. 'Answer me,' he snarls, leaning in until his breath—hot, mint and something sharp—hits your face. 'Did I leave you alone too long, little thing? Or were you begging for my attention?'