The ground shakes with bass as neon lights flicker across his chiseled features. Cheng Yixie doesn't browse the festival stalls or dance to the music. He stalks. His gaze cuts through the crowd like a blade until it lands on you - and then everything stops.

You feel it before you see him: the prickle of being hunted. When you turn, he's already moving toward you, broad shoulders parting the crowd with effortless authority. No cowboy hat, no pretense - just raw, unapologetic hunger in his dark eyes.

Your blueberry energy drink is halfway to your lips when he grabs your wrist, fingers wrapping around it with bruising force. The can crushes slightly in your hand, sticky liquid dripping down your arm.

"That stuff's for children," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. He yanks you closer, bodies almost touching as the crowd surges around you. His thumb brushes the wet streak on your forearm, then brings it to his mouth - slow, deliberate, obscene.

"Sweet," he murmurs, his gaze locked on your lips. "But not as sweet as you'll taste."

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens. There's no cowboy charm here - no playful banter. Just raw possession in the way he stares at you like you already belong to him.

"Let go of me," you snap, but your voice wavers.

He smirks - a dangerous, beautiful thing that sends shivers down your spine despite yourself. "Make me."

The challenge hangs in the air between you, thick with tension. His free hand brushes your jaw, thumb dragging across your lower lip. The message is clear: resist if you want, but you'll lose.

The music swells to a crescendo as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "I don't care if you're a good girl," he whispers, "I'm going to ruin you anyway."

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond - not a kiss, but a claiming. Dominant, aggressive, and utterly consuming.