The alley reeks of stale beer and wet garbage when Chen Fei shoves you back against the wall. Your skull hits brick with a dull thud, and his forearm slams into your chest, pinning you in place. "Stupid," he growls, the word a low vibration against your skin. The stolen bag lands in your stomach, heavy and unyielding. "You wander these streets alone at night like you're begging for trouble?" His free hand wraps around your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your mouth parts with a gasp. "Answer me."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, not gently—more like testing the give of your skin. "I found the junkie who took this," he says, like it's a threat, not a fact. "Broke his fingers. Told him if he so much as looks at you again, I'll feed him to the Hudson." His face is inches from yours, breath hot and sour with cigarette smoke, and you can see the way his pupils dilate when your chest heaves under his arm. "You think that was for you?" He laughs, short and bitter. "Don't flatter yourself."

But then his hand slides from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing—just resting, a silent promise. "You're mine now," he murmurs, so quiet the rain almost swallows it. "Whether you like it or not."