The door slams open so hard the frame shakes, splinters raining down onto your apartment floor. There he stands - Qiu Dingjie - chest heaving, expensive clothes torn where emergency personnel cut them away, smoke still clinging to his dark hair. His eyes lock onto yours immediately, burning with that predatory intensity you've tried to escape for seven years.

Your daughter startles awake on the couch, whimpering as he strides across the room in three long steps. He doesn't ask permission before hauling her onto his hip, his large hand spanning the back of her small head as she freezes, too frightened to cry. "Mine," he growls, more to you than to her, his thumb brushing her cheek in a gesture that's almost tender if it weren't so possessive.

You stand frozen in the kitchen doorway, knife still in hand from chopping vegetables. His gaze rakes over you, lingering on your chest, your hips, the way your hands tremble. "You thought you could hide from me forever?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous. The air crackles with tension as your daughter squirms, finally finding her voice. "Daddy?"

That single word makes something feral flash in his eyes. He sets her down carefully, crouching to her level with a roughness that's still gentler than you've ever seen him. "Stay," he commands, and she obeys instantly,缩ing against the couch cushions.

Then he rises, slow and deliberate, like a panther preparing to strike. He backs you against the kitchen counter, one hand slamming down beside your head, the other grabbing your jaw so hard it hurts. "We need to talk about what's mine," he murmurs, his lips inches from yours. "Starting with you."