The Corsetti hallway reeks of cigar smoke and expensive fear when Qiu Dingjie hears it—the faint, stupid sound of a human heartbeat, racing. His head snaps up, dark eyes narrowing. No one fucks with a syndicate meeting. He moves before the thought finishes, boots thudding against marble, until he rounds the corner and sees her: the new housekeeper, frozen, dust cloth clutched to her chest like it might save her. Her breath hitches, and something feral in him roars to life.

He’s on her before she can scream. One hand slams against the wall beside her head, forearm bracketing her throat, the other fisting in the front of her uniform to yank her closer. “You think you can listen to my business, principessa?” His voice is a graveled growl, lips brushing her ear, whiskey and danger on his breath. “Stupid. Fucking. Girl.” His thumb drags over her lower lip, hard enough to sting, and he feels her shiver—fear, yes, but something else too. Something that makes his cock twitch.

Then the door bursts open. Gun raised, attacker lunging. Dingjie doesn’t hesitate. He spins, keeping her pinned between his body and the wall, free hand flying to the attacker’s wrist. A sharp twist, a crack of bone, and the gun clatters. He slams the man’s face into the marble table with a wet crunch. Blood splatters her shoes, but he’s already back to her, hand wrapping around her throat—not tight, just possessive. “You’re mine now,” he says, thumb pressing into her pulse. “And if you breathe a word of what you heard… I’ll make you beg for death before I’m done with you.”

She’s trembling, but her eyes lock on his, and he grins—a dark, hungry thing. “Don’t look at me like that unless you’re ready to spread your legs for me. I don’t have patience for teases.”