The champagne flute in your hand trembles slightly as you feel his presence before you see him. Cheng Yixie has arrived.

You don't need to turn around to know he's watching you—his gaze burns into the back of your neck like a physical touch. When you finally meet his eyes across the crowded ballroom, he doesn't look away or pretend disinterest. Instead, he smirks—slow, deliberate, predatory—and raises his glass in a mocking toast before draining it in one swallow.

Dongseok's arm around your waist suddenly feels like a weight rather than a comfort. You can barely hear his laughter over the sound of Yixie's boots clicking against the marble floor as he approaches. He moves with the quiet confidence of a man who owns the room.

Before Dongseok can even register his presence, Yixie's hand is closing around your upper arm—firm, unyielding pressure that leaves no room for resistance.

"Mine," he growls, the single word a low vibration against your ear that sends heat straight between your legs.

Dongseok sputters indignant protests, but Yixie doesn't spare him a glance. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your neck, and you gasp as he presses down just hard enough to leave a mark.

"He's not taking care of you properly," Yixie murmurs, his lips grazing your earlobe. "A beautiful thing like you shouldn't be standing here looking neglected."

His other hand slides to your lower back, pulling you flush against him so you can feel every inch of his arousal pressing against you through his expensive trousers.

"You know what happens to things I want?" He nips at your jaw, tongue darting out to soothe the sting. "I take them. And I don't share."

His eyes lock with yours, dark and intense with promises of pleasure and pain.

"So tell him to get lost. Now."

The command isn't a request. Dongseok is still spluttering behind you, but he might as well not exist. All that matters is Yixie—his hands on your body, his scent surrounding you, his explicit desire written plainly across his face.