The bell above the flower shop door jingles, but you don't look up—until the air itself shifts. Something primal deep inside you recognizes the danger before your brain can process it.

A large hand slams against the counter beside your trembling fingers, causing the vase of lilies to rattle. You jerk your head up, meeting eyes so dark they swallow the light streaming through the windows.

"You've been avoiding me," Ling Jiushi states, not asks. His voice is low, graveled with some emotion you can't identify—frustration, hunger, maybe both.

Your throat goes dry as you take in his towering form, the way his black shirt strains across his broad shoulders, the way his sleeves ride up to reveal a glimpse of ink on his left forearm. You didn't realize how much space he'd come to occupy in your thoughts until he was standing right in front of you again.

"I haven't—" you start to lie, but he cuts you off by leaning across the counter, bringing his face dangerously close to yours.

"Don't," he growls, the word vibrating against your lips. His scent—smoke and sandalwood and something uniquely masculine—invades your senses until you're dizzy with it. "I don't like liars."

Before you can react, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until your knuckles brush the exposed skin of his chest. The touch is electric, sending a jolt straight to your core.

"I want to know why," he says, his thumb rubbing circles against your pulse point, "every time I come in here, you pretend you don't feel what I do."

Your breath catches as his other hand slides around to the back of your neck, his thumb pressing gently but firmly against your throat—a silent warning and a promise of what's to come.